


Blackout

by Mayflower (wkl9684)



Series: Interwar Trilogy [1]
Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Marines, Military, Military Science Fiction, ODSTs, Other, Spartans, SpecOps, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25256929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wkl9684/pseuds/Mayflower
Summary: The year is 2577. Humanity has recovered from a devastating war that occurred during 2569 and 2571, nearly repeating an extinction event on the level of the Covenant War. After discovering another faction of humans living on a distant planet hidden within the Anian nebula for centuries, tensions rise in the background.One of ONI's test facilities over the planet Sedra has gone silent at a crucial point in the development phase of a new superweapon. Its leader, Stinger, has ties to the Anians and a corrupt private military contractor on Sedra. The PMCs declared Sedra a free state independent from the UNSC, and Stinger has gone rogue. It's up to a Beta-5 unit, NG-8, to investigate under the purview of Internal Affairs - and, spearheading the efforts to retake Sedra, restore order to the region.
Series: Interwar Trilogy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1829818
Kudos: 3





	1. Prologue

_Cannon to right of them,_

_Cannon to left of them,_

_Cannon in front of them_

_Volleyed and thundered;_

_Stormed at with shot and shell,_

_Boldly they rode and well,_

_Into the jaws of Death,_

_Into the mouth of hell_

_Rode the six hundred._

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Charge of the Light Brigade”

_Thank you for choosing the RealTek* Technologies Virtual Reality Combat Training Platform!_

_Simulation participants:_

_CPL. Larock, Nicholas C. NL-03013_

_LCPL. Decker, Ken J. KD-07313_

_PVT. Korudo, Ame AK-03945_

_Initializing… Done!_

_Play Scenario: BATTLE_OF_TYPHON_

**1500 Hours, 19 September 2549 (Military Calendar)**

**Grid 240191, Typhon, Nexus star system**

**Covenant invasion of Typhon**

Three Orbital Drop Shock Troopers waited in their trench as the Marines hailed them over radio. Dirt and splintered wood crackled in the wake of a Banshee’s bright green plasma bomb, rising up above the pillbox, and raining down hellish embers on top of the trench line. Machine guns cracked bursts of fire into scores of aliens wielding powerful plasma weapons. The air sizzled as the bolts screamed by, boiling titanium, uniform, and flesh.

Eventually, the gunfire stopped from both sides. For a dumbfounded moment, the three Helljumpers stared at each other. Private Ame Korudo polarized her visor; she saw her HUD elements enter the corner of her helmet’s screen. Then, above, she saw a Spirit dropship sail lazily over the clearing they had fortified in the woods, and drop a platoon of aliens from an altitude of ten meters. Distantly above the dropship was a bulbous Covenant battlecruiser, belching alien plasma fire in nearly every direction at the harassing United Nations Space Command’s Navy strike fighters.

In the distance, from just over the trench, she saw two Wraith hovertanks pressing forward over the autumn grass, spitting rapid-fire plasma at the bunker and melting its concrete fortification down to a wash of blue-hot flame and bright clementine mercury. In front of the Wraiths were two kill squads consisting of six Grunts, four Jackals, four Elites, and a Hunter pair.

“Split up,” Larock ordered. He was, after all, the superior noncommissioned officer.

“What?” Korudo, who wasn’t buying it, protested. “That’s suicide. We should stick together and—”

“Forget about it,” Larock interrupted. “We’ll divide and conquer. I gave you an order; follow it, will you, sweets?”

Korudo almost decked the man for that, but thought better of it. Only slightly. Lance Corporal Ken Decker did some of the thinking for her by directing her away. “Time’s running out, Helljumper. Oorah?”

“Oorah,” she muttered, taking her battle rifle with her down the trench. She spoke into her mic after sighting in on one of the Grunts. _“In position. Waiting to fire.”_

_“Wait until you see the whites of their eyes.”_

_The whites of their eyes._ How silly, she thought. Aliens, having whites in their eyes. _Don’t be ridiculous_.

 _“I’m just screwing,”_ Larock teased. _“Open fire.”_

Gunfire crackled from his assault rifle, twenty yards to her left, and she followed suit; the single burst cracked the mask of the Grunt, blasting methane from the breather in every which way the Grunt’s headless body scurried across the ground, like a sentient chicken in its last moment of miserable life.

Not unlike a phalanx, one of the Jackals scrambled in front of the last standing Grunt, shielding him from bullets. Korudo laid her sights on the Elite, who was staring her right down from two dozen meters away. There was something chilling about making eye contact with an eight-foot-tall alien with a menacing look and a slippery, leathery composure under the ornate armor. Like staring into a monster’s eyes, or the abyss.

She squeezed off a few rounds into the Elite’s shields; the battle rifle’s rounds pinged off of them like they were nothing. This was to be expected. Elites had heavy energy shielding that could only be broken by overwhelming force—or a Spartan, which constituted as an overwhelming force. But there were no Spartans deployed to Typhon.

An energy beam cracked the air apart, and Decker’s status turned red on the HUD. _“We lost one!”_ Korudo shouted. _“Larock, we—”_

Larock dropped dead after climbing out of his trench and meeting his end by a single plasma spear from a beam rifle.

Korudo swore and quickly joined them as the Elite lobbed a grenade with incredible precision right onto her person. It magnetized to her body, and there was a terrible, silent, flash of light. Then there was nothing.

Had they survived a few minutes longer, perhaps they’d have lasted long enough to witness the process by which the Covenant, as they always did, systematically glassed the beautiful planet into oblivion.

——

Chief Warrant Officer Calvin Locke’s jaw slacked. He was awfully startled by the results. The Navy field agent stood up from his chair in the recreation center’s control room, and speechlessly slipped 50cR to Tiamat-G1106. He swallowed hard and found something to say aloud:

“They’re even worse than I thought.”

Tiamat, satisfied with his new fifty credaroos, leaned back in his chair and chortled to himself. He was a man of unwarranted character. Although, Locke wondered, was there any other kind of Spartan-III? His hair was always as jet black as his jawline was tough, as though it were forged by the flames of battle and tempered by hardship and loss. His eyes were not much different; they’d dragged everywhere he walked, and darted alertly everywhere he ran. Behind the glass of his SRS99, his eyes were steady, ice-cold, and convinced.

The Marine turned to the Spartan-III, a half-soldier, half-psychopath by design, and wondered again why he was friends with this man. More pressingly—“Aren’t you worried?” Locke spoke more accusingly than curiously.

Spartan Tiamat stood up, brushing his casual uniform, and towered all four inches over the Navy field agent. “Of course I am. At least I won the bet,” he said, waving the fat stack of tens in Locke’s face and strolling into the rec room. Locke watched from behind the one-way glass.

When Larock, Korudo, and Decker, the new NG-8 initiates, nearly _fell_ out of their pods hacking and gagging, it unsettlingly reminded him of his youth as a recruit fresh out of the academy.

“All right, what did we learn?” Tiamat crossed his arms.

Larock gasped for air before answering without respite for his new commanding officer. “Never divide and conquer again, sir.”

“You’re somewhat right,” he acknowledged. “Your enemies from this point onward will be unrelenting and uncompromising. You will see no quarter, and you will find no breaking point. The only way you’ll be able to keep up is if you can learn to collaborate as a unit; as _one_ , with your squadmates.

“Fortunately, none of you were chosen for your brains or tactical competence—I have God to thank for that one,” he continued. “You were selected for your unique talents in specific combat scenarios that may prove useful to NG-8.”

“Yes, sir,” they answered, as if in a choir.

Locke fidgeted. As entertaining as a Spartan grilling a triage of trigger-happy, gung-ho Helljumpers was, he couldn’t help but fixate on a certain thought.

“You know,” Lieutenant Junior Grade Mark Hayden, Recon Marine and long-time best friend of Locke’s, thoroughly derailed his train of thought. “Decker and Korudo seem promising. They’re good shots and they’re cool-headed.”

“Yes,” Locke muttered bitterly. “They’re exceptional Helljumpers.”

“Marines are Marines,” The man, nearly twice as old, reassured. “I always dreamed of becoming a Helljumper myself.”

Locke nearly groaned. “Really? That moto trash got to you? _Feet first into Hell, and back again_? Christ, I’d keep my spot in the 412th if it came down to that or becoming a bloody Shock Trooper.”

Before his second tour joining the Asymmetrical Action Group, Locke served as a Marine Raider in the 412th MEU. Instead of re-enlisting in the Corps, however, he chose the Navy—and quickly rose in the ranks, flying through the special forces qualifications. Of course, he still _felt_ like a Marine. You never really stop being a Marine, and Locke would carry that notion to his grave. Hayden had a similar background, and Locke suspected he felt the same way about it. But he started such a long time ago; that was in 2569, at the beginning of the Praesian War. By now he had seen it all.

Hayden chuckled. “You don’t mean that.”

“No, I suppose I don’t. But it sounds better.”

He took one last look into the rec room, with Tiamat now marching around the demotivated Helljumpers as they sweatily performed push-ups in a Vee formation, shouting officer nonsense he probably got from the manual. Then Locke turned on his heel, patted Hayden’s shoulder on his way out, and excused himself.

“I’ll see you at the briefing in two hours, then,” Hayden bid his farewell.

“Aye,” Locke simply answered. His mind was absent, off tending to his own worries and concerns regarding the rising tensions on the planet Sedra after a recent Office of Naval Intelligence report he’d read just the other day. Apparently, the mercenary garrison in the distant outer colony was turning out to be every bit of an error in UEG budgeting that Section One had feared it would be. Though, this was a problem for another fleet, on another day. His legs coasted on autopilot through the halls of Block 7 of the Autumn-class cruiser _Shrine of Atago_ , as she cruised through the darkest, most forgettable nowhere of de-jure UNSC, de-facto unclaimed space.


	2. Violence of Action

**0900 Hours, 9 April 2577 (Military Calendar)**

**Aboard UNSC** **_Shrine of Atago_ ** **, slipspace vector to Orrichon**

**Investigation of ONI Facility Lima-7**

“Heads up,” Tiamat warned to a freshly showered and uniformed Locke, settling into the cramped briefing room. “Saw a spook hop off a Pelican in the hangar.”

“Saw ‘em too. Blast,” the Englishman swore under his breath knowingly. “It’s Phantom and his bloody _ghost platoon_.”

“That’s… affectionate.” The Spartan rolled his shoulders, rubbing against the tight undersuit’s bulletproof nanoweave. “You know him?”

“Aye,” the career sailor answered as Hayden, Captain Nex, and Corporal Kadare filed in through the doorway. “He’s my Section Zero handler. I report directly to him.”

Nex-G1217, a Spartan-III from Gamma Company and the team leader, crossed her arms. “So he’s giving us an assignment.”

“If we’re lucky, he’ll leave the mission parameters to us,” said Hayden dryly. “Order of battle and all; we could benefit from it not getting interrupted for once.”

Locke noticed Operative Phantom shuffle into the briefing room behind Larock, Iyanna, Katrina Delta, Aelita, Rei, Decker, Mike-A482, Kygro, and Korudo, wearing what looked like matte-black, EVA ready fatigues under a black platecarrier. “We’re not lucky.”

The squadron mates all took their seats; Phantom fancied himself to standing behind the podium.

“I wonder if you even know his name,” Hayden weighed in.

“Of course not,” Locke snickered. “That’s the nature of these gents, don’t you think?” He caught the cold gray eyes, for an awkward few seconds, of the ONI Section Zero operative before politely nodding and breaking it off. “Ghosts,” he tried out the name. It rolled surprisingly well off the tongue.

The door slid shut and the operative dimmed the lights, centering focus on the central hologram unit. All conversations died down, and the attention was on Phantom. “Good afternoon,” he greeted with a distinct American accent.

From six seats to his left, Locke caught the mischievous glance of Katrina Delta, whose eyes said it all: _He’s an Earth boy. Like you._ If they weren’t regimented to total silence, he could imagine his girl snickering in amusement.

“Some of you already know me, some of you don’t. I’m Operative Phantom, and I’ll be taking the co-optive command role for your assignment. I’m sure you know the deal. Article 5, Asymmetrical Action Group Command Module: I can—but probably won’t—override the orders of your commanding officer, and you should—but don’t have to—defer to my counsel when making decisions.”

“That’s duly noted, Mr. Phantom,” Tiamat said aloud.

“Thank you, Captain.” Phantom extended his gratuities before a three-dimensional model of an asteroid base appeared on the holopad. “Seventy-two hours ago, CENTCOM stopped receiving updates for the second time from this base. ONI Lima-7. They’re settled on a natural satellite orbiting the planet Sedra, in the outer colonies. There’s a small colony on the surface, policed by Section 3 Defense Contracting as an alternative to the Colonial Militia’s underfunded, underequipped offices. As you know, Section Zero is involved strictly with internal affairs. I received orders about thirty-six hours ago to investigate the radio silence about Sedra with a specialist unit of my choosing.”

Section 3 Defense Contracting—not to be mistaken with _ONI Section Three_ , the research & development wing of the Office—was a private military company based in New Shanghai, Earth, founded by a large sum of government bonds and private invested money from what remained of the Inner Colonies after the Great War ended in 2552, and only amassed in power and influence since then. As the UNSC was severely out of its element—the war, after all, had turned hundreds of its colonies into ash and glass—to police the outer colonies, and seeing as the UEG nearly bankrupted itself in 2558 trying to reconstruct Earth alone, it was time for another plan. The government began contracting the private organization to do its work—this time, for virtually no monetary deposits. In return, S3 gained access to countless UNSC resources, including old, surplus equipment in incredible bulk, warships—here, warships _meant_ influence—and clearance to information that was eyes-only for ONI research projects. They took blueprints for experimental weaponry like laser, gauss, and coil guns; these projects were discarded by ONI, deemed too expensive and too difficult to sustain for outfitting anything other than a specialized unit. One such file they took also included _all_ of the information surrounding the Spartan-II Program. Locke was there for that exchange; he didn’t know what they could want to do with it, but he could make guesses. It was a deal with the Devil and they all knew it, but Fleet Command ordered them to play ball.

It later turned out that the leader of the S3 garrison on Sedra, Colonel Amanda Winters, was flagged for treason by the New Shanghai headquarters. She was wanted “internationally” (although the only “nation” in the galaxy that could care in fact answered to the Unified Earth Government), and requested that if she were somehow dealt with that she be brought to New Shanghai and, consequently, to justice. At the same time, the New Shanghai headquarters swiftly informed Fleet Admiral Windhover that it would be dealt with and she was no threat to the Inner Colonies. Not that he cared; the Navy was in no shape to mobilize after and possibly wage _war_ with a rogue mercenary garrison anyway, and to quote him:

“This was to be expected, wasn’t it?” With a sigh and a drag from a pipe, the jaded Admiral of the Navy ignored the Free Sedran Militia’s pleas. Instead, attention was drawn to the planet’s only natural satellite, where a nearly insignificant degree of suspicious activity had piqued the scrying eye of the Office of Naval Intelligence, Section Zero. An Internal Affairs plunder, no less.

It should then have been no surprise in twelve hours’ time to Locke that these two events were no coincidences; however, for reasons unknown and quite unforgivable, and in spite of having known all of this—Locke _was_ a rather high profile ONI Section One field agent himself, after all—it was.

Locke focused his eyes on the base; there was a single tarmac on the surface built around a command tower and a few hangar bays embedded inside the asteroid proper. The code letter L, or “Lima,” in the context of the Office of Naval Intelligence, always referred to a research and development site. Lima-7 was a base established for development of new weapons, but they seemed to be staffed not only by a research group, but facilities that perhaps accommodated for an entire battalion. The Marine astutely took note of this detail, and kept it in the back of his mind.

“My superiors are worried that the Spartan-IV in command of the security staff and base facilities, Operative Stinger, has deliberately cut off communication in light of a recent event. Perhaps they’re under distress or combat, and cannot make contact with us. Or, even more likely, they may have gone rogue and will be hostile to any enforcing party. As such, I am encouraging your unit to expect heavy resistance. One way or another, we will likely be preparing for violence of action.”

Phantom used the phrase “violence of action” incorrectly. The proper usage would be to describe the unrestricted use of strength, speed, surprise, and aggression to achieve total dominance in combat, specifically in CQB, or close-quarters battle. _Alas_ , Locke thought, _no man is perfect_. It was, after all, why he chose to court the rough and temperamental Katrina; she didn’t try to be anything but flawed.

“That’s the gist of it,” Phantom said. He then walked the squadron through the nuances and details of the mission, as well as all the contingency plans he plotted out. All of these were assisted by a visual aid, thanks to the hologram slideshow he prepared. ONI was many things, but the blasted organization was always proficient and elite about their documentation and paperwork. “Any questions?”

Locke spoke up. “Lima-7 looks awfully well defended, for a research base.”

“Aye, for good reason,” Phantom answered. “They were developing something called a scalar weapon. Codename ‘Muninn.’ Details are on a need-to-know basis, and all you need to know is that it _cannot_ fall into the wrong hands.”

Locke wondered to himself if they already had. Judging from the subtle facial language of his peers, he wasn’t the only one. Even still, he kept his poker face strong.

“Rules of engagement?” Nex asked.

“Simple. You get shot at, you shoot back. Violence of action.” This was a more acceptable use, Locke supposed.

No further questions. “I will accompany you all for the duration of this mission,” he informed everyone. “That is, I and my Ghosts. You’re dismissed.” The lights turned back on and the staff escaped their seats and filed out.

——

Four hours later, everyone was fully equipped for a combat sortie. They awaited further instructions in the armory, gearing up. Behind Locke, Nex thudded her boots against the floor and met with Mike.

Who could forget Old Man Mike, as the Marines and Auxiliaries affectionately dubbed him, who—beyond the eccentric front, and the hot hazel eyes that flickered wildly like a lightswitch to his compatriots’ morale—perhaps knew the true meaning of war, and him alone? Locke found plenty in common; as another medical officer aboard the _Atago_ , they’d collaborated many times and had built a working relationship both within and without the battlefield. The Spartan may not have looked it, but he’d trudged through the hells and back again—perhaps truer to doctrine than any shock trooper—and he had your back. Always.

Beyond him was Spartan Nex. Her service record as a Headhunter was as colorful as her language.

Larock lifted a SPNKr rocket launcher, practically giggling to himself over it.

Private Ame Korudo gave his shoulder a punch. “Big gun don’t make a big man, Larock,” she said, in her simplified Helljumperese.

“You just wish you were qualified to use one,” he snickered. “Sorry, trooper. Not this time.”

“A SPNKr _inside_ an asteroid base. Real nice,” Spartan Mike mocked him. Then he grabbed the two-tubed launcher and secured it to his backplate magnetically. “Besides, little guy, that’s _mine_.”

Locke pried a BR55 battle rifle off the assembly and shoved it in the hands of the dumbfounded trooper. “I’m fairly certain that you’re only cleared for one of these, _rifleman_.” The Helljumper paused for a moment, as if to say something, and then thought better of it.

Katrina approached, in her Spartan-IV suit, right next to Spartan Elira “Ember” Kadare. The Mark V Gen. 2 armor was bulky, but they were no Threes. Their genetic augmentations weren’t as incredible (and illegal). The two of them were only a few inches taller than Locke; Spartans, at least before the Generation 2 class that was entirely composed of adult volunteers, were known to be rather towering. “Who taught you to speak, Korudo? You sound like you grew up on Harvest. Post-glassing.”

“Nasty.” Larock sneered.

Korudo deadpanned at the other Helljumper. “You _look_ like you grew up on Harvest, Larock.”

Locke paced past him, slinging an M7 sub-machine gun off the rack. “Nasty,” he joked before addressing Katrina’s trenchy blue eyes, little beauties that always mystified him like those hapless boys in the campy romance novels he read before enlistment age. “You gonna be alright, love?”

The girl spake with little doubt. “Better than you, squid.” She smirked, and then passed him. It was their way of wishing good fortune upon each other, but that smile! That shitty, half-confident, cheeky grin! It always softened him, admittedly when it was meant to roughen him up for the fight. That was just the effect she had on Calvin Locke. It was a lot more obvious—and plenty more peculiar—a few years ago, especially when Tiamat was in earshot.

Two doorways and a narrow, utilitarian hallway down was the hangar, where they assembled. The bay itself was claustrophobic: only large enough to house two D-77 Pelican dropships; the Longsword escort was permanently docked on the outer hull, attached to the bottom of the _Genesis_.

Tiamat was waiting at the end of the hall. “Let’s get this going, then,” he said. 

Phantom was there, too. His men awaited outside, in two columns of eight; he spoke to their two squad leaders in a brief conference and approached the Captain. “All is in place,” he reported. “I have Ghoul and Swindle’s men ready; we should be coming out of Slipspace in…” he checked his tactical watch.

A heartbeat later, the warning klaxons blared and the alarm sounded one long tone—to alert the crew that they were exiting slipstream space jump, and returning to realspace. The ship shuddered, although because everything was secured to the hangar floor there was no visible stress or free-floating equipment. It felt like a conventional airplane landing on a very short runway. For a second, the pure-black void of the wormhole outside the hangar’s shield doors coalesced the external light of the ship and then washed away in a blinding, blue-hot stream of illumination as the FTL drive tore a hole in space and spat out the _Genesis_. Flooding into view came a backdrop vibrant with stars, nebula, a sun, an asteroid belt, and—last to come into focus—the mammoth planet Sedra. This sensation always filled Locke with a childish glee. He wondered if it had that effect on anyone else as the crews and hangar deck hands grew more erratic and mobile.

“Right about now,” Phantom slowed his speech as he took note. “Right, then, there’s no time to waste.”

“Very good,” Tiamat answered, and motioned everyone ahead.

NG-8 boarded the left side Pelican’s troop bay while Ghost platoon entered the other. Minutes later, when everyone was secured in the seats of the “blood tray,” the pilot Viper checked launch clearance and lifted off of the hangar floor and out into the black of space.

Phantom, Locke, Nex, and Katrina stayed standing in the bay, gripping the overhead handlebars like commuters on a subway tube. Locke gazed out the viewport, watching the prowler they had disembarked from deploy a Longsword. That would be Warrant Officer Windhover’s plane. Shortly after, they heard her call over coms that she was in formation with their dropship and prepared to escort them to Lima-7.

 _So it begins_.


	3. The Scalar Weapon

**1400 Hours, 9 April 2577 (Military Calendar)**

**Orbit of Sedra, Orrichon star system**

**Investigation of ONI Facility Lima-7**

“I’m not getting a response,” Phantom reported. He tried again; Locke could hear it on his sealed helmet’s integrated coms suite. _“Repeat: Lima-7, this is Operative Phantom, ONI Section Zero. Phantom to Stinger, please acknowledge.”_

Viper shouted back from the cockpit. “I’m seeing a ton of activity on the runway. Please advise.”

Phantom tried again, but he was too late. The cockpit’s dashboard blared red and the radar warning sounded.

Locke swore aloud as the dropship lurched, pulling everyone standing in the bay downwards.

Viper barked an order to his copilot: “Dump flares!”

Phantom stopped cold, waiting for the radar warning to eventually end.

 _“They’re starting to fire their point-defense guns,”_ Viper nagged on the radio. _“We’re catching flak now.”_

 _“Viper,”_ Phantom addressed, _“full throttle ahead; straight for the base. Go straight through the flak layer. We have to get to the surface.”_

_“You’re sure that’s a good idea?”_

_“Just do it,”_ Phantom spat.

“Article 5,” Locke muttered under his breath mockingly. “‘I can, but probably won’t, issue orders that override your commanding officer.’” _What a joke_.

Larock scoffed. “You fixin’ to get us killed, spook?”

“Just trust me,” Phantom said, as the dropship began to accelerate and pitch downwards. “We have to get through to the minimum safe distance, or that scalar weapon will—”

At that moment, all of the lights went out, and the Pelican’s engines spooled down. Simultaneously, the Locke’s heads-up-display completely shut off; the rifles and electronic optics of NG-8 powered down. All of the gunfire in the space surrounding the two dropships, following this interruption, also completely ceased.

Nex pried her helmet off, letting it float beside her without the artificial gravity to weigh anything, and was the first to ask:

“What the fuck was that?”

“ _That_ was what I was afraid of.” Phantom responded, pulling his own helmet off. “Listen up. That scalar weapon just knocked out all of our electronics, save for the Spartans’ life support and core suit functionalities. We’re gonna have to disembark from our ship and fight our way down.

“Radios are out, too,” Locke said, tinkering with his headset. “Completely dead. How are we going to coordinate?”

“You remember CQC training, Marine?” Korudo asked. “Ye olde hand signals.” The Helljumper, waving her free arm about erratically, might have been onto something.

Larock stood up, arching his back. “Sure do love me a challenge. All the more fun, all the more gut-wrenchingly satisfying the kills.”

“Uh-oh,” Korudo teased. “Larock just used a four-syllable word. It’s the end times.”

Locke watched as Tiamat cycled his SRS-99 sniper rifle to low-power-mode—not that it mattered. The only thing that was working was the gas operation. No ammo counter, no tactical readout, no telescopic scope. “Better switch to your sidearm,” he advised. Tiamat agreed, tossing the doomed rifle into the overhead compartment and racking his M6C. A heartbeat later, Locke disciplined Larock. “Stay frosty, will you. We’ve got a job to do, and it _did_ just prove much harder.”

“What’s your plan?” Tiamat poised at Phantom. “Our EVA gear was fried by that EMP. We’ve only got eight minutes of oxygen if we go out there.”

Phantom nodded. “We’re gonna have to use our guns to slow our approach to the surface of the tarmac, and we’ll have about seven minutes to clear out the ground and find a way inside.”

“Or else we suffocate in the terrible void of space,” Iyanna Neiamen deadpanned, matter-of-factly. Everyone gazed at her for a moment, and silently accepted the truth in that statement. Regardless, it was a soldier’s virtue to accept that they were perhaps already dead men walking; the very next mission could always be their last.

“Seal up,” Tiamat barked. “Decompress the bay when everyone’s ready. Viper, get your copilot and get back here—you’re coming with us.”

Seconds later, everyone was ready and the bay had been slowly decompressed of oxygen—and, consequently, of all sound. Without a heads-up display, Locke had no way of telling how much oxygen he really had. Eight minutes was just an estimate, but it didn’t take into account of a user’s breathing when under the stress of combat. Or—God forbid—if there was a puncture in the suit’s oxygen tank. Just worrying about that brought back the sweats, and the ever-familiar pumping of adrenaline through Locke’s veins. In the weightlessness of space, his gear somehow felt just _that_ much lighter in the flushing hype. He regimented a few seconds to control his breathing and discipline himself; even with the hot adrenaline spike, he’d trained his hands to be still as ice.

Following a few heartbeats and a squad of thumbs-ups, Ember tossed a breaching charge on the bay doors, which wouldn’t budge open—not even at the hands of a Spartan—and kicked off the mechanical timer. Some things just didn’t need electricity to run. The thermite charge touched off, creating a suitably shaped hole for everyone to snake themselves out from. They struggled to attach themselves to the bottom of the Pelican’s aft section, as mag boots were now a luxury they desperately wanted, and oriented themselves upwards.

Here, up was down, and their objective was below, by about two hundred kilometers. The dropship, now the space equivalent of flotsam, drifted at three hundred kilometers per hour towards the station. Just behind them, to the Pelican’s port side, was Ghost platoon. They were already outside their bird, attempting to do the same thing Phantom advised.

Tiamat judged when it would be suitable to jump.

This was the moment when, beyond all the banter, roughhousing, and infighting, NG-8—as it always did—proved itself to be the best fighting force in the galaxy. She kicked off, and seconds later, the “Nova” operatives all followed in unison in a scattered formation, with dedicated purpose.

In the airless void of space, they drifted towards that heavily fortified rock in space, taking gunfire. The men on the surface were making pot-shots at the incoming targets, although Locke knew they were moving far too fast for apt target acquisition. Even Tiamat would be hard-pressed to get an accurate shot on a mass of infantry sailing so quickly through the… _well, it’s not exactly air, is it?_

Synchronously, they picked their targets and unlatched their firearms from their persons, shouldering and aiming down the crude ironsights at the rapidly-closing “landing zone,” if they could call it that. Before they could take aim, though, they had to decelerate. Especially the ones without the force multipliers of a power armor, like the Helljumpers and Marines.

As they approached what was about fifty meters to the surface, Locke leaned hard into his sub-machine gun, switching the safety’s knob from SAFE to FULL, and squeezed several bursts into the ground. The rapid-fire spits of the M7 helped slow his descent to a speed that wouldn’t kill him on impact, but it was still rough; he crashed feet-first into the tarmac, and whatever stance he did have was broken by the impact. The sailor rolled and tumbled across the asphalt, eventually slowing to a halt half a meter above the ground.

A few meters away was a field agent, boots locked to the floor, zeroing on Locke with an MA56 assault rifle. Locke drew quicker, out of skill, reflex, and luck, and fired a burst into the rogue agent’s helmet. The man reeled back oddly, deceased but still tethered to the surface.

_How come their mag boots work?_

Locke could see Ember up at the top of the tower, taking longshots with her battle rifle, at the infantry on the surface. She was careful to distinguish the rogue agents from Phantom’s men, considering their matte-black uniforms were very similar in appearance.

Before Locke could do anything, an arm pulled him to the side and he faced an adversary with a blade drawn. It was too close for even his M7; he had only the reflexes to drop it and catch the hand’s stabbing motion and used the energy spent towards him by twisting the attacker’s arm and sending the blade into his own plate carrier. Then in a lightning-fast succession, he swept the man off of his boots, drifting a meter off of the tarmac. Locke gripped his sub-machine gun, braced his shoulder into it, and let it belch a single burst, nailing five rounds into the field agent’s neck area.

At this moment, watching the poor bastard’s corpse drift upside-down at eye-level, it had occurred to Locke that this was the first man he’d killed in more than six years.

Then he felt an arm land on his shoulder plate. It was Tiamat; the Spartan gave a hand gesture that it was all clear. Locke responded with a thumbs-up and followed him on what looked like a twentieth-century Apollo moonwalk. The others were amassed around a blast door that entered into a large vehicle airlock to the hangar’s interior.

Phantom placed a device onto the airlock control panel. A few seconds later, the screen blinked green and the blast door opened without issue. There was power here. The scalar weapon Phantom was talking about hadn’t affected the electronics on Lima-7. This couldn’t be. _Could it?_

When they entered the large airlock and re-pressurized the room, Locke unsealed and pried his helmet off, immediately securing it to his belt and facing Phantom. “What the bloody hell is going on? How have they not been affected by the—I mean, they fired the scalar weapon. I don’t—”

Operative Phantom cut him off. “I bet you there’s at least twenty of them.”

Locke paused. “What?”

“On the other side of that door, waiting for us.”

He took a second to consider this. As much as he hated to admit it, any grievances he had with this intelligence officer would have to wait. “Weapons up,” he encouraged the Novas, as he re-secured his helmet.

The blast doors hissed and screamed as the hydraulics struggled to pull them apart. The first layer came down, revealing another layer of hard titanium. Then the pistons and magnetic clamps engaged the door’s reinforcements, slowly—but ever surely—open.

The following five seconds became a pure bloodbath.


	4. Stinger

**1440 Hours, 9 April 2577 (Military Calendar)**

**Orbit of Sedra, Orrichon star system**

**Investigation of ONI Facility Lima-7**

“Clear!” Locke called as he rounded a parked Gauss-mounted Warthog in the motorpool.

From the opposite side of the vehicle bay, Ember called out, “Clear!”

With their weapons leveled, the members of NG-8 stepped about the hangar, careful to not trip on any of the bodies. “All right,” Nex asked the apparent new acting commander, “what’s next?”

Phantom rested his BR55, “We’re going in and out. Neutralize Fireteam Redwing; apprehend Stinger; get him out.”

“ _Apprehend_ a Spartan-Four?” Locke asked. “How do you propose we do that?”

Katrina’s titanium boots clacked against the floor as she stepped over to him, watching the door on the far side of the bay. “There’s probably five of them. We can just kill them and overwhelm Stinger.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Hayden deadpanned. You could never tell, beyond the balaclava that he so often wore, whether or not he was joking.

Phantom turned to his associates, who went by the code names Ghoul and Specter. “Keep your men down here. Secure our exit route; once we find Stinger, we’ll need to expedite.”

Ghoul nodded. “Copy,” he said with an icy inflection.

Phantom then informed them that the only way to Stinger was up. “There’s a service elevator nearby. I’d upload the base’s schematics to your HUDs, but…”

“We’ll follow your lead,” Nex said.

The next two hallways were empty, and to everyone’s surprise, the service lift was left unguarded. Phantom hailed it, allowing NG-8 to board the car, and entered into the control panel’s registry for the command center’s deck. A moment later, it jolted upwards, and they were in business.

The lift carried them upwards in total silence; Locke looked up, through the grate, and saw the top of the elevator shaft’s maintenance lamps growing closer ever so slightly. Three decks below their destination, the platform suddenly halted, and the doors locked down.

“Shite,” Decker swore, “what’s now?”

“Think we’re still going up,” Nex said, racking her M90 shotgun and blasting a sizable hole in the top grate with nine-gauge buckshot. She then reached up and pulled the steel lattice, tearing chunks of metal that sparked and screamed in retaliation. Such a feat would have been nearly impossible for any man, but it was no trouble for a Spartan. “Unpowered first,” she gestured to the Helljumper.

Decker shrugged as Nex knelt down and held her hands in front of her, stepping onto them to be launched three meters into the air—just high enough to get through the hole, just fast enough to gain his footing on the other side of the grated ceiling. Next up was Larock, who apprehensively stepped forth, then Korudo, who—rather oppositely—jumped with confidence, followed by a nonchalant Locke and Hayden. Last was Phantom and Aelita, who—oddly enough—had yet to say much of anything. Once they were all up, the Spartans used their suits’ force multipliers in their legs to propel themselves through the hole as well. It was sometimes jarring to watch them do that, to literally jump several times their own height. These days, however, it was commonplace enough that Locke wouldn’t even think again about it.

Thankfully, Phantom had brought an M19 multipurpose grappling hook. Locke was certain that he was the only one. He unlatched it from his kit harness and aimed it at the ceiling, letting it loose after a cautious double-sec. It let off a loud _pop_ as the pressurized gas contained in its chamber discharged, launching the magnetic hook ten meters straight upwards before making contact and sealing itself to the steel bulkhead. _Lucky that ceiling wasn’t stainless_ , Locke thought, as the heavy-nickel-tipped grappling hook was only useful because it was charged electromagnetically. But without any power, thanks to that scalar weapon, they could only rely on it so much. It would have been useless for stainless steel, which wasn’t magnetic. They used it to ascend the remaining three decks, Ember first—she was, after all, the one with the damage pack.

Unfortunately, she had to free-climb. Grappling hooks were many things, but even the heavy-nickel tip could only go so far when more than a few hundred pounds were to stress it. She instead gripped the cable, wrapping it around her gauntlet, and held onto a support that she trusted with the weight of her squadron mates. One foaming C7 charge later, and they had a sizeable hole in the blast door.

“Clear!” Ember called out after scanning the hall. Then, one-by-one, they filed into formation from up the cable. It took almost ten minutes to bring everyone up; the exercise reminded Locke of his training days as a Marine, pulling the weight of his self, his armor, his seventy-kilograms of ammunition, and his rifle up a rope wall. It kicked his arse back then, and it damn sure sucked to do it now.

When he reached the top, he quietly readied his M7, and checked his ammunition the old-fashioned way; the Marine unlatched the magazine from its coupling, carefully judging both by the weight of the box and by whether or not there were still bullets fed into the chambering end. He concluded that there was a figure of thirty 5x23mm M443 Caseless FMJ rounds left in the sixty-round mag.

Phantom took point, informing everyone that the command center was just around the corner and to the right. He stacked himself on the wall, aggressively scanning the adjacent corner as he reached the end, then paced himself a good meter away from the wall he clung to and “pied”—that is, slowly pacing around the corner to incrementally reveal more “slices” of view—before letting off two short bursts from his bullpup rifle. The three-round crackles of the gunfire echoed down the halls, rallying some shouts from about a distant corner. “Bridge is sealed off by a blast door,” Phantom reported.

“Alright,” Locke called to the Helljumpers, “covering positions on the opposite of the hall. Spartan Ember, prep to breach those doors.” They followed his orders dutily; Korudo, Larock, and Decker took kneeling and standing positions on opposite sides of the wall directionally “south” of the command bridge.

Locke watched the blast door with his M7’s irons as gunfire erupted behind them. He trusted his men, and they carried out their defenses without difficulty against the Marines.

Ember set up the explosives carefully before detonating. Thermite traced the edges of the blast door, penetrating it. The second-stage C7 explosive nearly vaporized the entire door, detonating the blast towards the command center.

Gunfire came in from both sides. Any young, green Marine would be disoriented by the fray of combat, but to Locke, the constant bursts and cracks of rifled bullets leaving the speed of sound in the dust were not so stress-inducing. That isn’t to say that he was immune to the fear of war; that was what got soldiers killed, after all. Especially when their luck ran out.

Whether or not Locke was fortunate on this day was yet to be determined.

Blocking their path was a bunch of overturned server computers, which now served as their impromptu cover. Who knew that eighty kilograms of electronics and steel electromagnetic plating would be bulletproof? Until then, not anyone in Nova.

Decker came running up the hall as the shooting behind them stopped; he stayed low, weaving between lockers and wall supports for cover, until he found himself next to Locke. Larock was close behind him.

Phantom was stacked on the low cover—although, in this context, it was more like the man was pinned down—as white-hot tracer rounds bounced and ricocheted off of the server walls and the hallway ceiling. A few seconds later, the suppression subsided; all went quiet.

A digitally processed voice called out from a Spartan helmet speaker:

_“Phantom!”_

“Stinger,” the ONI agent responded after a moment’s hesitation. “I’m guessing you’re already aware enough that this is blue-on-blue.” Blue-on-blue meant friendly fire. But that was in the past; the base had already been declared hostile an hour ago.

 _“And I’m sure you’re at your wit’s end as to why,”_ Operative Stinger confirmed their suspicions. _“Worry not; I’ll let you know before I send my message to HIGHCOM. Because I’m just that nice.”_ There was conviction in his voice. He sounded like a true believer, a real Insurrectionist, Locke thought. It was always the first tell that their enemy was beyond redemption.

“I’m at the edge of my seat,” Phantom joked dryly. Using a small mirror, he quietly recce’d the command center. “Do please enlighten me.” He gave Decker a hand signal: _Three on the left. At least five on the right._

Decker nodded, racking a grenade launcher. He sent back: _On your command_.

 _“You ONI types are all the same, you know?”_ Stinger began. Locke watched Phantom’s gestures carefully, pointing out in silence where exactly to shoot. Apparently there was a full Spartan fireteam, comprised of five—including Stinger—fully geared and powered; shielding was to be expected. Then, on the left side of the room, there were either three or four men equipped with M7s, BR55s, and full ODST kits—the EVA loadouts and all. One of the Spartans was using a sniper rifle; another was wielding a squad automatic weapon. _“You’re always out to kill the people doing the right thing.”_

“Now!” Phantom shouted. Decker popped up and squeezed off a grenade into the room, holding down the weapon’s remote wire trigger to detonate an electromagnetic pulse that could cripple the Spartans. The grenade flew straight across the room, embedding itself in the glass viewscreen protecting them from the void of space. It was a decent plan, Locke had to admit, if it weren’t for the saboted sniper round that overpenetrated clean through Ken Decker’s helmet, blasting the wall with blood, brain, shattered bits of his helmet, and polymerized glass from the visor. The ex-Helljumper slumped over like a sandbag, dead before he even hit the ground.

Locke took advantage of this brief moment to stick his head, arms, and sub-machine gun over cover momentarily to fire a ten-round burst into one of the ODSTs on the other side of the cover. The man’s ceramic armor plating absorbed the initial shots, but fractured and broke apart by the sixth and seventh; the eighth and ninth penetrated the chest and neck, killing him instantly, and the tenth sent his riddled corpse into the floor.

A hail of rifle and pistol rounds came after him. Locke ducked back down behind cover before any of those shots became accurate.

It all happened too quickly. Larock, startled, shouted out and swore for Ken Decker before firing a burst into the crowd of enemy combatants. Somehow he avoided the same fate as the other Helljumper. Phantom stayed where he was, content with his supplication of hard cover.

 _“That was… clever,”_ Stinger taunted, _“But you’ll have to do better than that. You think you can just take these sacred things from the world, and get away with it—well, no more. I’m going to take something of yours, and I hope it’ll instill you the good sense to keep your distance.”_ As Locke wondered what that could have meant, he peeked ever-so-slightly out of his cover and watched the Spartan who must have been Stinger himself move.

Really, it was fairly easy to tell. The man seemed to be standing in a more distinguished stance than the others, and was mostly centered by their wedge formation. Plus, the speech seemed to have come from him. The one with the greatest ego and grandeur, Locke had come to learn over the years, was usually their commander.

The identification came too little, too late, however. Stinger gripped from his backplate a sidearm—no, Locke realized, it was an M363 Remote Projectile Detonator, or “sticky bomb” —and pointed it at the fractured glass; he fired the explosive device into the window next to Decker’s grenade. Locke gripped whatever he could as tightly as possible, anticipating the most likely immediate outcome. He found only the edge of the server, which didn’t help much. “Grab a hold of—”

The sticky bomb detonated, creating a loud shockwave that shook the air and rattled Locke’s eardrums, even with his helmet secured and sealed properly. Then, the glass window shattered and ejected its debris into the void of space—the room, as well, quickly followed in explosive decompression.

Stinger was gone, and so were all of his ODST and Spartan compatriots; it seemed Locke was about to join them. The servers were heavy as fuck, but apparently not heavy enough; they slid, rather quickly, towards the breach in the windows. The frantic sailor swore aloud more than he had ever remembered doing so in such a small time frame, grasping and clawing for anything to hold on to.

A powered hand reached out and grabbed him, holding him from the vacuum as the air, brass cartridges, and debris rushed and blew past him like heavy wind. It was an odd sensation, like he was dangling in a new gravitational orientation. “Above” him was Tiamat, who had dug his arm into a titanium wall and reached out just enough to grab the now-very-fortunate comrade, shouting new directives to Locke indistinctly along the lines of “don’t let go,” and tightening his grip around the Marine’s forearm.

As Locke pulled his free hand up to hold on to Tiamat’s arm, he vaguely noticed Larock shouting to him:

“I’m going after them!” Then he let go, against Locke’s protests, and sailed head-first towards the window in order to chase after Stinger and Fireteam Redwing. This _also_ would have worked, were it not for the station’s emergency blast doors sealing up in such due time that only nanoseconds before he reached the exit point, he collided with the doors and flattened his body out along the new wall.

With the breach sealed, all of the air suddenly stilled itself, and down was _down_ again; Locke fell a good meter and a half, landing winded hard on his side into the steel-but-it-felt-like-fucking-titanium floor. He rolled to his side in pain and shock, pulling himself back together and recovering for half a minute. His sides stung as they felt the pressure of his plate carrier and equipment rig press into it from the sheer impact.

Larock swore. “Man, that hurt! That hurt a lot!” He didn’t sound that hurt, though. The reactive gels in his suit must have absorbed enough of the impact that it didn’t cause significant damage to his spine. _May have a fractured rib or two on his hands,_ Locke considered. _The lad folded rather ghastly_.

The sailor swore one more time for good measure under his breath as he pretended to dust himself off and let out a mischievous, adrenaline-fueled grin and checked his M7. “Right, then, I suppose the room is clear?”

Tiamat barked an order to the squadron. “Give me a sit-rep.”

There was a chorus of I’m-ups, I’m-standings, and I’m-fucked-up-but-I’m-ups that echoed throughout the command center. Korudo knelt over the limp corpse of Lance Corporal Ken Decker. “We lost one,” she said lowly. “Well, at least he’s getting that promotion he always wanted.”

Larock, already back on his feet, paced over menacingly. “Are you mocking him, Private Korudo? Is this a joke to you?”

“Ohoho,” she laughed through grit teeth, “it’s rank and name, now. You finally getting serious, “ _Corporal_ Larock?”

The hothead threw a punch at the Helljumper; she recoiled back, scoffing, and retaliated in kind—by flooring him with a brutal push kick.

There were shouts, and for a few seconds, the squadron gathered around to watch and try to intervene. Locke yelled over them. “That’s enough!” Larock pulled himself up just before being restrained by Tiamat’s impressive arms. Korudo bounced on her heels before her shoulders were weighed down by Spartan Ember. “What the _bloody hell_ is wrong with you?” Locke shouted, capitalizing on his profanity. “Square yourselves away or I’ll fucking put you both down.” The sailor reached for his M6C pistol, snappily uncoupling it from the right leg holster.

Hayden firmly stopped Locke, wrapping his fingers around his friend’s wrist. “Easy, buddy. No need to get so worked up over the boys.”

Locke took a deep breath, a moment of contemplation, and slowly nodded in embarrassment, holstering his weapon after Hayden released his grip. He eyed Korudo and Larock. “You good?”

“Yes, sir,” they both said quietly.

Locke passed them without another moment’s attention, facing Phantom. “I’d hate to see what they’re like when I’m _not_ around,” the spook teased dryly as always. There was a heartbeat of silence where it sank in with the entire squadron. Then, Phantom spoke again. “He said he was going to ‘take’ something. Couldn’t have meant—”

Locke waited a beat before prying. “What?”

“Ghoul,” he blurted out. His speech quickened like a fighter’s jet engine spooling up. “Mission’s scrubbed. Return to the hangar.” The agent spun on his heel and led them back to the elevator shaft.

Locke spoke with the pace they were running at. “How are we getting off of this rock? It’s not like we can call for extraction.”

Phantom answered, “Easy. We extract ourselves. There should be a dropship in one of their launch bays.”

“We won’t all fit,” Locke contested.

“One problem at a time, Chief.”


	5. Phantom

**1540 Hours, 9 April 2577 (Military Calendar)**

**Orbit of Sedra, Orrichon star system**

**Investigation of ONI Facility Lima-7**

They returned to the main hangar only to find an array of dead bodies littered on a pool of crimson. These were Ghoul and Specter’s men. The bay was otherwise clear of hostiles. Locke swore under his breath as they stepped over the mangled corpses and fresh puddles of blood, yet to be congealed and coagulated.

Phantom reached one of them and gazed down; his knees broke way and he silently collapsed next to Operative Ghoul’s expressionless, pale face. He reached into the late spook’s uniform about the collar and tore out the man’s dog tags. When rising, he quietly—and apparently to no one but himself—murmured, “He’s gonna pay.” Locke couldn’t help but look over the poor lad with concern and sympathy.

Suddenly, a person swung out from behind a Warthog, sighting in through an air crew’s modified M6. Tiamat, thanks to his lightning-fast reflexes—what they called “Spartan time,” and for good reason—called it out: “Friendly, my front! Blue! Blue!”

Viper lowered his weapon when he identified the Novas. “Thank God,” he said. “I thought you were Stinger’s boys comin’ to finish me off.”

“Christ,” Locke swore, joining the frayed pilot’s side and gently laying a hand on his backside, missing his helmet. “They been through here? I mean, you saw ‘em.”

Viper hesitated. “It was too fast,” he stuttered. “I couldn’t—I’m sorry, Chief.” He was trembling; his face was young. He was a bright pilot, fit for the NG-8 Auxiliary Company, but no older than twenty-five. Even as an ace pilot from the previous war, it was obvious he had never seen combat up close.

Locke rested his hand on the damaged man’s shoulder, consoling him. “It’s all right.” Of course, he’d been here before.

It was the Second Battle of Typhon, in the winter solstice of 2563, midway through Operation Black Shield. During his first raid, someone from the 412th MEU called a bad artillery coordinate. The boy Calvin Locke watched his entire company come up-ended like the dirt the shells turned out of the snow. It took him months to accept what happened in a measure of seconds. The career soldier told the pilot what he was told years ago:

“You’re a man, now, Viper. One of us.”

Before Viper said anything else, Phantom rose up from his knees and addressed him. “Where’s Specter?”

The pilot shifted his stance. “I—” the pilot had to stammer before regaining his composure. “He and Bravo-2 went further to recce the coms room. He was going to try to get out a message to the _Moebius_.”

Phantom looked down. He must have known what that meant, but he couldn’t want to admit it.

“He ordered us not to go after him, sir.”

“I know,” Phantom said. “That’s what Specter would do.”

Locke cocked his head. “ _Are we_?”

The spook shook his head after a few seconds of contemplation. “We can’t,” he whispered, “we can’t. We have to RTB with our report and re-strategize.”

“Copy that,” the Locke answered. His voice chilled to an icy texture. There would be time to regret this decision later — if they made it out alive. They moved out as quickly as possible; there was no way they weren’t being monitored as they spake.

They found a Pelican in Launch Bay 2, only a deck down and a hundred meters in one direction, according to Phantom’s well-memorized map reference. They fought through about a dozen security staff, who didn’t make much of a difference in the face of Ember, Tiamat, and Nex’s Spartan armors. The trio took point as munitions shielding and the softer Novas used as mobile cover— _like tanks,_ Locke thought. _Walking, half-ton, six-feet tall tanks._

Lo and behold, there was one Pelican dropship—unarmed, unfueled, and unprepped to launch by the deck staff who were terrorized and surrendered in the process of clearing the unguarded bay; in fact, she was grounded as the whole base was on lockdown. “She’ll have to do,” Phantom disregarded all other factors. “Prep this ship to launch,” he ordered a prisoner crewman, “or I’ll shoot you through the head,” he added when the unequipped man hesitated.

Locke, who had some aircraft experience, joined Viper in the absence of a living copilot in the cockpit. From outside, he waved at one of the crewmen; the man, instead of giving a thumbs-up for _green to launch, green to launch_ , he gave an arm of honor for… well, Locke knew. _“_ Systems green—ish—and you’re clear to launch, Viper,” Locke reported. “Preferably before they sabotage us.”

A second later, the dropship was off the ground, and Viper punched the throttle. The Pelican promptly lurched forward, sinking Locke into the back of his seat. The ship jumped out of the bay and away from the base against the protests of Lima-7’s air traffic controller. At full-throttle, cautiously maneuvering about the rough asteroid field, Viper had the dropship clocked in at over six hundred kilometers per hour—and still accelerating—until they were out of the effective range of the guns.

There was no way to find the _Moebius_ with her stealth ablative coating and radar-defying technology without sending out a message on an open channel hailing it. So Phantom did it from the radio transmissions station of the dropship. _“Moebius, this is Alpha-1, Operative Phantom. Mission failed, requesting extraction.. Please acknowledge.”_

Before he could repeat the message, the power disappeared again: the lights died, the engine spooled down, and Locke felt weightless again. “Stay up here,” he ordered Viper, “keep an eye out for anything we might collide into.” He climbed out of his seat and propelled himself into the blood tray, where everyone was anxiously on their feet. Ish.

“All right,” Locke said to Phantom. “I’m all ears.”

“About what,” Phantom stated more than he asked; he challenged more than he answered.

Locke shook his head. “That, what was it… that scalar weapon,” he remembered. “And Stinger. We all heard what he said.” He inched closer, pointing a finger at Phantom’s platecarrier. “You know something we don’t.”

“I know something you don’t _need_ to know,” he growled, “and I will reveal relevant information at my discretion and mine alone.”

Locke turned to his peers, scanning their reactions. Tiamat and Nex were like-minded and equally cynical. They crossed their arms, with their helmets dispatched and secured to their belts, and watched expressionlessly. The Helljumpers, also like-minded but not alike, seemed to be behind Locke based on their expressions. Katrina and Mike scowled, drifting behind the Marine in a sort of silent cast of judgment upon their ONI adversary. And then he caught Hayden’s eye. The middle-aged man simply laid out his weapons on the overhead rack and rested himself oddly on the sealed ramp, listening cross-legged in the zero-G. Iyanna and Aelita, both indifferent for apparently different reasons—for one, Iyanna wasn’t even human; and two, Aelita was … strange, and usually detached from her bearings when out of combat—as they were seated facing each other, gazing up to them. From the ceiling.

The elite corpsman measured his next words carefully, playing the ONI game—this time on his own turf. “Before this gets out of hand, you ought to understand that we do. Sedra went dark around the same time as Lima-7,” he reported as Phantom’s eyes widened. “Didn’t think I’d know that, did you? Didn’t think that I had a _higher clearance_ than you do?”

For the first time all day, Phantom was speechless.

“I _read_ the reports. I _do_ my homework. The only thing I’m not allowed to know, apparently, is what I need to. This isn’t a coincidence, and I want to know what caused all of this. And these men and women,” he gestured to the members of NG-8, “all deserve to.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Not even the engine of the Pelican, which had been long dead, could break it. Then Phantom compromised as though they’d backed him into a corner. They practically did. “Alright. I’ll tell you everything.”

Locke backed off a bit. “We’ve got plenty of time.”


	6. Sedra

**1900 Hours, 9 April 2577 (Military Calendar)**

**Aboard UNSC** **_Shrine of Atago_ ** **, orbit of Sedra, Orrichon star system**

**UNSC Peacekeeping Operation “Blackout”**

The dropship was flooded with bright searchlights, whose brilliant, white beams poked through the thick polymerized glass of the cockpit and scraped against a few infantrymen in view of the rectangular aperture of the doorway, carving thick shadows against the sealed ramp in the back. The _Moebius_ danced about the dead dropship, matching her speed and slowly, cautiously, but surely, inviting her to one of their hangar bays. After Auxiliaries tried to pry the bay door open, they resorted to cutting with an oxy fuel torch—and when that didn’t work, they used thermite.

Marines and crewmen helped the Novas out of the bay; the acting medical chief in place of Locke or Mike barraged Tiamat with questions about wounded, sick, or generally oddly conditioned lads. Viper was perhaps the only person who was qualified as injured, but it was better described as “traumatized.” He did see the sickbay, actually, for some counseling.

Locke convened with a few Marines, Hayden and Tiamat, and the deck chief. They discussed the status of their mission, their acting commander, and the reason they returned on a different horse than they rode out in, in that particular order of persons, and that particular order of conversations respectively. After going through those motions, he carried on to the debriefing room. An hour later, he stepped out and passed Mark Hayden, who had been summoned for his debrief with Operative Phantom. Locke nodded and made for the barracks, where he dropped onto his bunk—barring his plate carrier and weapons—and passed out like he always did after combat missions.

——

Phantom had a considerably busier evening. After interviewing all of the members of NG-8 by 23:30, he quickly typed up a report and sent it to HIGHCOM, and requested his orders. He passed Tiamat and Katrina in the halls as he reviewed his document on the tablet ONI agents were so infamous for, and noted them exchange odd looks before returning to their senseless argument.

Something was burning inside him. It was a quiet, dim torch, that slowly enveloped every thought that touched it since they disembarked from the dropship and made him grow only more irritable as he speechlessly trod down the cramped halls of the _Shrine of Atago’s_ Block 7. Phantom often found it difficult to cope with combat stress; this was primarily because he couldn’t remember how he did it before he awoke as Operative Phantom in 2571. He didn’t spend much time on the field, but he found he was extremely skilled with the battle rifle and knew what to do in a fistfight. Most of his memory escaped him, except for the essentials: language, posture, and muscle memory. ONI Section Three didn’t even revive him with a proper name, nor an understanding of civilian life and culture. He was, as far as he was concerned, a literal phantom—his family, all ghosts, were just like him.

Six hours later came the reply, a mission update from ONI Section Zero:

**United Nations Space Command Special Order 090831D-1**

[ Encryption Code ](http://halo.wikia.com/wiki/Encryption_Code): Gamma

Public Key: file/black-sky/

From: UNSC/ONI Section 0 CDR R. S. Alton

To: UNSC/ONI Section 0 Operative Phantom

Subject: Special Order 090831D-1 ("Operation Blackout mission overview")

[ Classification ](http://halo.wikia.com/wiki/Transmission_Classification) **:** EYES ONLY TOP SECRET (SECTION 0 X-RAY DIRECTIVE):

**Operation Blackout mission overview**

Section I: Project Hyūga, Declassified

The scalar weapon under development at ONI Research Base Lima-7 is capable of incredible destruction. It operates by sending out scalar waves at varying frequencies in an area outside of a set of defined three-dimensional radii. These waves behave like high-frequency electromagnetic waves emitted in bursts. At low intensity, the scalar waves can cause the same effect as an electromagnetic bomb on all electronics they will make contact with. This has been observed by the chief science officer of Project Hyūga, Anna Chang, in her incident report that detailed test firing the weapon on a Kig-Yar pirate flotilla.

The report documented three Kig-Yar pirate ships, which were reportedly battle-damaged Covenant war-era CSS battlecruisers, had jumped into orbit of Sedra. Their objective appeared to be to exploit the natural resources and human colony. Lima-7 test fired the scalar weapon at low yield, which permanently damaged the electronics and shipboard navigation systems, general power, auxiliary power, and what remained of the old war-era’s point-defense guns, as well as every last vehicle aboard the Kig-Yar vessels. Lima-7’s hardware, however, remained unharmed. Within the same day, Section 3 Defense and Contracting deployed the Frost Brigade to intercept, but found little resistance; after a few firefights during the boarding action, the pirate crews surrendered and the conflict had resolved itself.

When triggered at a high yield, it is theorized that the scalar waves would significantly disrupt everything they will encounter, including but not limited to: soil, rock, tectonic plates, gases, and matériel. The waves would cause seismic shocks in any object they would make contact with, effectively rendering it vaporized or severely damaged. The probability of its effectiveness against warships and surface elements is nearly 100%, both in accuracy and lethality. At its highest yield, the ground zero of a concentrated scalar wavelength would create earthquakes that exceed 10.0 on the Richter scale by exponential figures, and could potentially shake a planet’s mantle and even affect its outer core.

Section II: directives for Operation Blackout

There is enough evidence collected by Section One’s human intelligence indicating that Stinger is colluding with Colonel Amanda Winters, the leader of the S3 garrison on Sedra. The full nature of this alliance is unknown; we believe that Winters is exchanging power and influence for blueprints to illegally produce high-tech experimental military hardware and outfit her infantry with them. This makes Winters a priority target, and by extension the entire S3 Frost Brigade.

It is apparent that it will be impossible to dismantle the entire Frost Brigade’s infrastructure (as it greatly resembles the military structure of a UNSCDF joint-branch task force, comprising of several battalions incorporating infantry, armor, and air support elements) with only your jurisdiction of NG-8. FLEETCOM has recognized the specialist nature of NG-8 and has assembled a series of UNSC Navy, Army, and Marine Corps elements into one Task Force Blackbird, and dispatched them to Sedra to open a theater of operations.

Task Force Blackbird’s tactical strength will consist of:

UNSC _Valley Forge_ , SC-971

UNSC _Shrine of Atago_ , XC-111

UNSC _Dawn Under Heaven_ , C-707

UNSC _White Bird_ , CVN-100

UNSC _New Mombasa_ , FFG-310

UNSC _Long Caster_ , FFG-252

UNSC _Wyvern_ , FFG-275

UNSC _Morrighan_ , DD-307

UNSC _Babel Tower_ , DD-171

UNSC AEW & ESM support ship _Sky Holder_ EWC-118

UNSC AEW & ESM support ship _Juggernaut_ EWC-66

Commissioned supply ship _Feeding Time_

Commissioned supply ship _Zumwalt_

Commissioned supply ship _Merchant Marine_

Commissioned troop transport _Merryweather_

Commissioned troop transport _Archipelago_

All available carrier wings aboard UNSC _White Bird_

110th Marine Infantry Division, 3rd Battalion “Bison”

412th Marine Mechanized Division, 1st Battalion “Heavies”

455th Orbital Drop Shock Trooper Division, 2nd Battalion “Gunfighter”

115th Army Command Assault Division, 3rd Battalion “Knockers”

111th MARSOC, Marine Reconnaissance Force, Group 1 “Hawkeyes”

Asymmetrical Action Group KS-7 “Cobalt”

Asymmetrical Action Group NG-8 “Nova”

Asymmetrical Action Group VD-9 “Reaper”

AAG Support Alpha Company “Auxiliaries”

I will forward more details in the datastream today, but that is the general outline of what we are activating right now.

I am tasking you, Operative Phantom, with the direct command jurisdiction of this task force, and am trusting you with strategic coordination alongside Rear Admiral Hayes of the UNSC _Valley Forge_. You will have at your disposal implements of reconnaissance, direct action, and forward air control; I advise you use them all to end the threat of the Frost Brigade and Stinger. Good hunting.

Phantom read the rest of the report and leaned back in his chair, finally, and rested his tablet on the desk after deleting it. He stared up at the wall, wondering about his “past life,” as he began to refer to it. He wondered who he was and what he stood for. He wondered why he’d lost it, and if it was even worth pursuing.

When he closed his eyes, he could have sworn he saw it. It was a vague image, like the lingering image of a sunspot when he closed his eyes after watching a nearby star’s glow, although it resembled a figure. An American man, roughly his height, looking at him through a camera. He had bright blue eyes that shined like the daytime sky in the distance; his hair was clear-cut, and a kind of jet black Phantom respected. His face was difficult to distinguish—generic, even. The man was smiling emphatically for a camera, balancing his olive drab Marine helmet against his rig with one hand and nonchalantly gripping the barrel of his MA5 with the other. Phantom had imagined the scene as post-Covenant War era, some time between 2559 and 2570.

There were two others: a British Marine and a young redheaded woman wearing the same division patches. Phantom pretended for a moment that these two were siblings — no, all three of them. He felt some sort of nostalgia for the earlier times he hadn’t known, like reflecting on a scene he’d never been to.

Who were these people? They couldn’t have been real; Phantom only imagined them. Fantasy is the machination of the mind, he thought. They could have been projections—false flags, false memories given to him by ONI in case he ever did need them for a strong emotional reprieve of some sort—in case his mental state had been jeopardized, this could be a response to trigger a bit of more positive sensibilities. At the same time, Phantom didn’t at all feel like it was helping.

When he opened his eyes, it was 06:30.

——

The UNSC _Valley Forge_ was a great many things: massive, impressive, imposing, and terrifying, but graceful was not among them. When she fell out of slipspace, she literally _fell_ —the rupture tore a hole in reality and appeared to have belched the mammoth of a Everest-class super-heavy cruiser into the system. When she regained her bearings, she listed, turned, and Locke could imagine her internals groaning and grumbling as her sublight thrusters lit up and spewed a vibrant, ionic blue deuterium contrail and forced her into the orbit of Sedra.

Only a few seconds later, her fleet followed closely behind in a cascade of slipspace ruptures: An Atlas-class carrier, three Stalwarts, two Halberd-class destroyers, and four troop transports. They amassed into a tight formation over the course of half an hour, and the engines of the _Genesis_ roared dully as she coasted to join them.

Hayden, in passing, stopped in the hall next to Locke and shifted his gaze to the spectacle. They exchanged a brief look of concern and confusion before Locke shrugged and took a sip from his thermos of black tea.

Soon enough, they’d been called to the briefing room. Locke sat in his usual spot, near Tiamat and Katrina, and just in front of Hayden.

Phantom folded his arms behind him and let the slideshow begin. “As of ten hours ago, our mission focus has been shifted to the surface of Sedra—specifically here, in the northern arctic region. This is where S3’s Frost Battalion has made its presence. The commander,” he said, pulling up a profile of Amanda Winters, “Colonel Winters is running the show. What’s more is that she’s colluding with Stinger.”

“Is that confirmed?” Locke asked with his analytical ONI voice.

“Yes,” Phantom answered. “They’ve cut a deal: Stinger gives Winters development weapons to strengthen her troops, and Winters gives him resources and influence.”

Locke raised an eyebrow. A twinge of worry rose through him, but it was quickly suppressed.

“I’ll update you all later by data transmission,” Phantom said, and then added a tactical readout of the Sedran arctic regions. “There are three major sites we suspect are S3 bases, and about six others that appear to be observation posts and positions centered in the surface-bound colony to the south that serve as staging areas for their troops. Right now, we can’t make a move until we can actively recon them and devise a strategy.

“You’ll split into several groups covering the region,” he concluded.

After a few questions, and some brief and informative answers, he broke them into the appropriate teams and dismissed them from the briefing.

——

Downtown was quiet. The streets here were abandoned to the point of disrepair; it was only Militiamen and the Nomad gang locked in a war, with S3 peacekeepers caught in the middle. The Nomads would occasionally try to hit the Free Sedra Militia where they thought it hurt; reprisals would include focused, crippling Militia strikes on Nomad dens. Section 3 would later apprehend Nomad gangsters or Militia rebels and ten or fifteen—it always depended on the severity—random civilians grabbed off the street, and make examples. It was a cycle hard to break free from, and Graves knew it.

Sedra City used to be so beautiful. It also used to be under protection of the UNSC, until 2569. He could never forget that day, when the entire detachment vanished. The Frost Brigade took over from then, and managed to remove the Marines and Colonial Army from their duties within the first three months of isolation. Panic, rioting, and unrest ensued, and the former Major Graves was resigned to a small-time insurgent.

The seven years since had been long and harsh. The winters outstayed their welcomes and the summers barely even graced them. As the food shortages overtook the outer colony, power came to Amanda Winters so much more quickly. And so did the hatred.

Gripen knocked on the door to Graves’ office, so to speak—they had to change safe houses and locations every four months or sooner—and was welcomed. “All is nearly complete, sir,” he said. “We’ve got our intel on the Sentinel and are ready to make our move within the week.”

Graves nodded, looking up from the map he’d been studying for the past few hours. “There’s just one more thing we’ll need.”

“Sir?”

He looked over the map again, reading off the route of an S3 supply route. “There’s an electronics shipment coming down 21st Street near Allenson. I need what’s in that package. Think you can get your Raiders out there tomorrow?”

“It’s a bit of a diversion, sir, but I think I can get Bowyer and Molina and a few riflemen.”

“Good,” Graves said. “We’re running out of time. Once we have it, we’ll secure the Sentinel and be on it.”

“Sure thing,” Gripen answered to his long-time commander, “but… what is it, exactly?”

He leaned back and sighed, examining the reference on his map one last time. “If I’ve got the right intel from Molina and Gates, it’s a cipher.”


	7. The Northern Front

**1900 Hours, 9 April 2577 (Military Calendar)**

**Grid 26-55, Far Northern Theater, Sedra, Orrichon star system**

**UNSC Peacekeeping Operation “Blackout”**

Two D-99 Spectres sailed down towards the surface in the arctic Sedra. Locke, fully armored in his BDU, powered up the ammo tracker on his BR55. Out the small viewport he could see the other dropship entering atmosphere in close formation with their own; Viper called thirty minutes to the surface from the cockpit.

“Remember this is a recon mission,” Nex said. “We’ll go quiet, scout out the Leda radar site, and regroup with the main force’s primary firebase. We’re going to be cut off from all supports until that radar site is offline, which means we’ll be dark for most of the mission.”

The dropship resonated with a few easy  _ oorahs _ and  _ hooyahs _ .

Tiamat, the second-in-command, chimed in. “Pack suppressors. Anyone who can use active camouflage, do so as much as possible. The rest of you will need to rely on your uniforms and conventional stealth.”

This was already known to most of Nova Squadron, but there were new arrivals today. This would be Larock and Korudo’s second mission, but their first stealth op. Locke kept a close eye on them—albeit from a distance.

Hayden fixed the scarf around his face, then secured the helmet speechlessly. He stood behind Locke in the bay, and appropriated his MA56.

The MA56 and BR55 rifles were marvels of technology, Locke had to admit. They were invincible platforms—modular, enduring, powerful, and sexy. The MA56 assault rifle was sleek and optimized for close quarters and medium range engagements as a bullpup—a perfection of the MA5C’s gas system, but a deviation from the MA5 series overall because of its change in caliber. It fired a 6.5mm intermediary cartridge, which allowed for excellent recoil control and very high accuracy and velocity. The UNSC was quick to standardize the MA56 over the MA5C and later variations of the MA5D in 2553, following the Covenant War. By 2560, the entire ICWS budget had been updated to accommodate all three designs, but the MA5C was not fully retired until 2569. The BR55 was even better, a true battle rifle from the age of war. Even firing a 7.62mm round out of a resigned short barrel, it had a sleek design with an ergonomic ambidextrous setup, as well as a tried-and-true Covenant War-era scope that Marines all across the colonies fell in love with. The contours of the weapon, as well, Locke had an affinity for. It was a design that beat out the newer, heavier, and stockier BR85 models from when Acheron Industrial took over Misriah Armory. Many special forces groups found the BR85 to be unnecessarily clunky and preferred the shorter, sleeker BR55—a reliable weapon that proved itself during the Covenant War and once again during the Praesian war, twenty years later.

The viewscreens adopted imagery of the outside, taking in sweeping mountains and pillars of white snow and black stone, rising and tickling the bluer-than-life skies.  _ “I’m going to get you as close as I can without risking detection,” _ Viper reported over the com,  _ “about four klicks out in the canyons. Five mikes.” _

Minutes passed in silence, save for the screaming engines of the dropship that began to quiet as they dumped speed and altitude; the ship was entering a sort of stealth phase of reduced emissions, noise, and radar signature, at the expense of maneuverability and agility. Hopefully the S3 garrison’s scopes wouldn’t pick up a dropship small enough to carry twenty men.

Before they knew it, the light turned green, the bay doors opened, and fast ropes dropped.  _ “Cleared to deploy, Group Eight,” _ Viper said.  _ “I see Group Niner over the ridgeline. They’re deploying at Grid 553, just a little east from here.” _

“Copy that, Viper,” Tiamat answered. “Stay frosty. Exercise noise discipline from here on.”

Locke wrapped his gloves around the fast rope, clutched it with his boots, and controlled his ten-meter descent. When his boots crashed into the snow below, he released himself and readied his weapon, watching the ridge walls around the small clearing. It was much too small for the actual dropship to settle down, but plenty wide for a squad of infantry to take refuge in. Or ambush.

As more people rode the fast rope down and Spartans jumped—their power armor, for sure, could take the fall—they established three hundred and sixty degrees of security before the last man, Mike, made it down and Viper pulled his craft up and out of sight and earshot.

“We’re clear,” Ember called.

“Let’s get moving, then,” Tiamat said. “Regroup with Adler and Saker’s units to the east.”

Lieutenant Shay Adler, leader of Wolverine Squad, was well-known among the Marine Auxiliaries aboard the  _ Atago _ . Wolverine Squad had a long history of surviving and mission success; it’d lasted itself well through missions along the war front in 2569, 2570, and 2571, as well as several battles during the preceding Seven Weeks War in 2569 and the Human-Kaelorian War in 2575. Perhaps, then,  _ well-known _ was an understatement—Wolverine Squad was  _ well-adored _ , in no small part by Locke, Hayden, and the Marine crews that aspired to compete. Adler was a very wholesome Marine. He was loved by his men and everyone who shared a foxhole with him, both before and after his induction to the Auxiliaries. The man gained such a reputation that there was even some lore surrounding him—after all, how does one Marine unit—led by a charismatic tactician, no less—survive the trials and tribulations of the Praesian War? Or perhaps the onslaught of the Mylex Union’s encroachment to human spaces, or the wartime Kaelorian raids?

Master Sergeant Qian-Ming “Saker” Shu commanded an ODST Auxiliary squad by the name of Dragon; it was largely comprised of Marines from southern China, all the way from Earth, which meant they had all been acquainted or even friends since before their selection to the NG-8 Auxiliary Combat Support Company. Even more beloved than the  _ Atago’s  _ premier reconnaissance support squadron was this strike team, which had seen more success in direct action missions across the board than most single units in the Marine Corps.

It would seem at first glance that Wolverine Squad and Dragon Squad had no reason to be assigned together, and Locke would have been right to assume so. But he knew better; he knew that Adler and Saker were friends—and that Adler was a very persuasive officer.

Without another word, the unit moved as one in a diamond formation; they kept their weapons raised and their stances low, keeping to the shadows or the snow. It took half an hour to make it through the tough, rocky, and snowy terrain to the rendezvous point, which was the clearing where Nova-9 had dusted off of. All was quiet, save for the rustling of the trees in the harsh arctic winds. Tiamat encroached closer to the open space before starting the countersign:

“Night.”

The response came in a heartbeat. “Stalker.”

Nine arctic-camouflaged CH252 helmets popped out of the snow mounds and sleet over the course of a few seconds; behind them, eight polarized Helljumper visors. Then the Nova Squadron revealed themselves. Adler, pulling his mask down, greeted Tiamat with a nod and Locke and Hayden with a firm handshake.

“Chief,” Adler said, “Good to see you in the field again. Hayden, too.”

“Aye,” Locke said. “It’s been too long since we actually did something exciting together. Sometimes I wish you weren’t just a support squad.”

Hayden returned formalities in the form of a sideways glance and a nod. He never seemed to enjoy talking—and it was hard to tell when the man almost always wore a mask—but he did enjoy working with Adler.

Adler smiled warmly, and gave Locke’s shoulder a pat. “Just doing our part.” Then he addressed Nex. “Let’s get your boys and get going, yeah? Got a lot of ground to cover.”

“Agreed,” the captain said. “Let’s move out, people. Stay low, and stay light. Disperse wide enough so that we can’t get hit by a grenade, close enough to hear each other’s footfalls.”

In total silence, they were mobile again. It didn’t take more than an hour to clear out of the evergreens and into the actual canyon’s mountainside, which was narrow and steep; they had to walk single or double-file along a narrow trail, carefully so as to not slip on one stray rock they couldn’t see or get blown off of the edge by a stray gust of wind, for half a kilometer before the pathway opened up again.

The whole night was beautiful, from twilight to daybreak; with no light pollution, or cloud coverage, the stars were out and there for Locke’s enjoyment. Two and a half full moons hovered in the sky, looking down upon them and casting powerful strokes of light that glowed and glistened off of the ice sheets and snow. Even at night, the grounds were bright and seemed to vibrate colorless—pure and virgin—rays of lumens. Far above them was a neon crease in the ionosphere, which cracked and leaked in every which way the eyes darted. The light was just bright enough to demand the human eye’s unwavering attention, and just dim enough to be pleasantly ignored by the equidistant ground and snow. When they rested, he found a spot along the ridgeline with a good view of it all; Katrina would sit near him, and they would share each moment they could in silent appreciation.

There were many things Calvin Locke would forget in his second tour under NAVSPECWAR—details that would slip his mind as he’d embellish his past with war stories and tall tales. The northern lights of Sedra were not among them.

——

There was a plateau large enough and concealed by the icy canyons just below the ridgeline where Task Force Blackbird’s third recon group landed. The group was large, containing a full company of Marines—that was, three platoons. They had all spread out along the ridgeline, taking to positions of concealment until further notice. Captain Noah Braxton, the tenant officer of Reaper Platoon, kept a close eye on the flatlands about forty meters below them.

Major Hamilton poked his head out from behind a rock, crawling up to Braxton; he spoke lowly, although they all doubted anyone could actually hear them at this range. “Down there, forty meters. Flat clearing, looks like snow and dirt.”

Braxton nodded. “Looks suitable.”

“We can use it, then,” Hamilton said. “Send Cobalt down to sweep mines. Then we’ll set down the first beacon.”

The beacon would mark their location as the staging area for Operation Blackout; the first one would also designate a landing zone for the Albatrosses watching from above. It was useful because they needed to transmit on a cellular frequency rather than radio, because all of the radio frequencies were jammed by the S3 site.

Cobalt Platoon climbed out of cover a few seconds after Braxton sent off the order, hooking themselves to the ridgeline and descending by rope. They hopped and kicked off of the cliff face as they descended like buoys bobbing in a stormy shore until they planted their boots on the icy floor. Three of them reached into their kitbags and assembled mine detectors, watching the screens carefully as they paced around the large space.

Hours later, the pass was clear. They marked it down, and waited for another forty-five minutes for the Albatrosses to start landing.

It was a long time spent waiting, watching the perimeter. Gusts and gales of wind and snow flurries blasted across the valley, channeling through its walls like a wind tunnel. The freezing breezes crashed into Braxton’s uniform, ruffling it and—even through the heavy layers and cold weather system—chilled him to his core.

He had, in fact, stayed still long enough for his rifle to gradually become covered with snow, until the first landing ships arrived. Snow and bits of ice clouded around the landing zone where Marines launched flares and anticipated the deployment of building materials and the logistics engineers to unpack them. Within the day, some basic structures had been erected, pre-packaged in their housings and deployed with only a few men and hours of assembly required.

Their team helped deploy the outer observation posts, which wound up being little more than foxholes with camouflage tarps laid out over the snow to conceal the survival kits and, of course, the sentries. The rest of the day, for Cobalt and Reaper, was dedicated towards maintaining a streamlined route around the forward firebase.

All that was left to do was rendezvous with a unit called NG-8, callsign “Nova”—whoever they were.

Hamilton stood up after a few hours of work, crouched under a quonset hut’s foundation and tediously trying to solve a problem with two Marines on a particularly icy foundation, and approached Braxton. They engaged in idle conversation on their newfound libos. Braxton tinkered with his radio, his rifle, his boots, and his helmet coms whilst the Cobalt platoon leader, Captain Tucker Shu, milled over to them from a fence deployment.

“It’s no good,” Braxton said. “No matter what frequency I’m on, I just hear feedback.”

Shu shook his head. “Well, you’re never gonna get anything out of it when we’re this close to their jamming base. Those jammers are huge - they can cover the entire Thanatos Military Sector.”

“I’m sure they already do,” Braxton said, giving up.

They heard in the distance a few Marines shouting orders. “Contact at the top of the ridge!”

Braxton sprang to action, followed closely behind by Shu. They drew their weapons towards the silhouettes at the top of the ridgeline from which they came. Was it Nova? Or had the S3 stationed at Leda finally discovered their staging area?

“Night!” one of the Marines shouted. It echoed against the valley’s rocky walls.

“Stalker!” came the reply. “Stalker! Blue, blue!”

“Stand down,” Hamilton shouted. “It’s Nova!”

Braxton slowly lowered his BR55, relaxing his stance as the ODSTs and Spartans descended the ridge. He let out a deep sigh. Although they were expecting contact with Nova, no one was truly ready to fight just yet.

——

Locke and Hayden exchanged handshakes and pleasantries with some of the Marines at Firebase Falcon upon disconnecting from the ropes at the base of the ridge. He recognized some of these men—like Adler, they were hardened Raiders and Recon Marines who served during the Praesian War. Like Adler, they were some of humanity’s best and brightest.

Major Hamilton, who was in charge of Task Force Blackbird’s Marine element, approached to greet them. Locke made no change in his stance; this was no place to salute an officer, as a sniper could be watching from any vantage point at any time. “Sir,” he said, “it’s good to see you.”

“As you were,” Hamilton said, lifting his hand momentarily. “Once you’re all situated, let’s get your officers gathered around. I’ve been chatting on the satellite phone and I’ve got a plan laid out already.”

“Yes, sir,” Tiamat said, just reaching the base of the cliffs. For a towering beast wearing half a short-ton of MJOLNIR armor, he was remarkably quiet. All of the Spartans were. And Locke knew that Nex and Kygro, no less, were exceptional stealth specialists—in fact, they were Headhunters before joining NG-8.

The briefing was in the central quonset hut being used primarily as the FOS’ command center. Hamilton wasted no time laying out the map of Military Sector Thanatos. The northern mountains were rigid with few viable routes for the Marines to take. Leda Station in particular was spectacularly dug-in. It was a massive installation centered around a tremendous spire of bulbous ESM facilities, gargantuan radar dishes, server farms, and signal jammers the size of cell towers. Three large glacial walls boxed the base in. At the top of each wall was a series of firebases and observation posts—its eyes and ears. There was only one way in or out: through the icy gorge directly in front of the base. If Locke was reading the map correctly, then their FOS was only a few kilometers off the beaten path of the gorge. The trail they set up on was just obscure enough to hide their staging area and just wide enough to slip the Scorpion and Grizzly tanks through.

A red beam extended from the FOS to Leda Station down this very route. Hamilton spoke up. “The most obvious route to Leda Station is the worst approach,” he said. “It’s straight down the middle in a valley-of-death style choke point, but it’s the only way to get our tanks there in one element. In short, it’s our best shot at taking out those ESM towers before we lose our thunder.”

Tiamat nodded. They all knew how risky of a plan this was. Normally, it would be a wiser decision to encircle the base and wait it out—after all, Leda Station’s primary weakness was that it was effectively cornered. There was no significant means of escape, and without an airfield there was only one supply route available. However, S3 still maintained air superiority so long as the signal jammers existed: they could block everything, from encrypted communications to heat-seeking and radar-guided FCS modules on aircraft. The only thing they just about couldn’t disrupt were visual scopes—and human eyes.

“That ESM system is powerful,” Hamilton said. “It’s an invaluable asset we  _ should _ be taking over, but we don’t have the time. We need their base more than we need their radar jammers. We need to win the first battle while our boots are still dry in the snow.”

“The AAG groups can scout around the perimeter,” Tiamat said. “Recce the base, find crucial geographic and strength analyses of the canyon. Maybe even find another way in. What’s your plan?”

Hamilton nodded, laying down on the table a laser designator, a flare gun, and an infrared strobe light. The holy trinity. “We’ll need to get in close, anyway,” he said. “We’ll use these to mark the targets. IR strobes for the ground facilities and the laser designators for the large ESM towers.”

“Right,” Tiamat said. “What exactly are we designating them for?”

“A saturation attack,” Hamilton said. “Four strike fighters are loitering just outside the AO with a stand-off package, waiting for the signal.” He picked up the flare gun. “This is how you’ll call it in. The missiles are tuned to a low-frequency squawk transponder, low enough to pick up only the IR strobes at close range. They won’t be very effective without a precise shot from the pilots, but they also aren’t listening on a wide enough band to be jammed by enemy ECM.”

Locke frowned. That would cause unnecessary damage to the base; it was equally important to preserve Leda Station’s structural integrity—within reason—as it would become Blackbird’s base of operations until they took the other two large military facilities. It might have meant that the specs on the ESM towers—an old, experimental, and secretive Covenant War technology—had not yet been declassified by HIGHCOM, meaning that the higher commanders of Task Force Blackbird didn’t know which structure was most important to the ESM array. Partially destroying it might not have done enough; what if they had disabled their coms jammers, but not radar? Or vice versa?

None of that would do; they would have to wipe  _ all _ of the radar jammers and coms jammers at once with the saturation attack, or else they would risk not even putting a dent into the system out of ignorance of how the entire array worked. Hamilton’s plan was brash, almost suicidal, and bound to get a great many Marines killed—but it was their best chance to get that victory by nightfall.

“If we can get that saturation attack, we can get our aircraft back in there. No more communicating with the  _ Valley Forge _ with IR signal lamps.”

“I was getting tired of that already, sir,” Captain Braxton said. A few other Marine recon team leaders smirked among each other and the Major. The officers of NG-8 remained stoic.

Hamilton turned to Tiamat. “I’ll need your group to head the recon missions scouting out the base,” he said. “Be quick; you’ll have until noon to report back, or else we’ll be oscar mike already.”

“Yes, sir,” Tiamat said.

“Any questions?” Hamilton asked, directing his voice to the Spartan.

“No, sir. None at all—we’re ready to go now, actually.”

“Excellent,” Hamilton said. “Brief your people and go. You and your officers are dismissed.”

Tiamat about-faced and left the command center without another word. Nex, Hayden, and Locke followed suit.


	8. Two Battles, Two Fronts

**2100 Hours, 10 April 2577 (Military Calendar)**

**Grid 26-55, Far Northern Theater, Sedra, Orrichon star system**

**UNSC Peacekeeping Operation “Blackout”**

_ “Delta Two-Niner, this is Zumwalt,” _ the boom operator’s voice crackled over the com. She sounded much less tired than he was. “ _ You’re cleared to engage aerial refueling.” _

Warrant Officer Arthur Northgate adjusted his pitch and eased up on the throttle. Combat Refueling Tanker  _ Zumwalt  _ came into view just eight hundred meters ahead as they broke the cloud layer. Shapes and silhouettes molded in the darkness ahead. Green and red collision lights dazzled the night sky, marking the edges of angular contours as they approached the massive supply ship. Two angry red eyes — the guidance lights of the refueling boom — stared him down from an array of docking booms and turned green. “Delta Two-Niner copies,” Northgate said, lining up the D-77B with the guidance computer’s array. “I’m on track.”

_“Six hundred meters to tanker,”_ _Zumwalt_ said. _“Approach looks good. Maintain current speed. Wind fifty knots, bearing 160.”_

“Copy, wind fifty knots, 160,” Viper said, adjusting the rudders on the refitted dropship. There was a rumble of turbulence as they ran into the headwind. “I have visual confirmation on the tanker. Lookin’ good,  _ Zumwalt _ .”

_ Zumwalt _ chuckled.  _ “Thanks. Gotta keep her pretty, especially for the boys like you out on your twenty-hour flights.” _

“Appreciate it,” Viper said. Warrant Officer Daniel “Whiskers” Hawthorne got up and walked to the back of the compartment. The copilot wasn’t needed for the aerial refueling operation, so Whiskers elected to instead open up one of their twenty-four-hour ration packs.

_ “Delta Two-Niner, you are 350 meters to tanker. Bleed.” _

“Delta Two-Niner copies, bleeding now,” Northgate said. He eased up on the Strike Pelican’s throttle ever so slightly and extended the flaps to the first position. Quickly, the flight became easier, and the dropship “bled” speed much more smoothly.

_ “One hundred meters to tanker. Lookin’ good, Viper.” _

Viper grinned. “How can you see me so well, though? Don’t tell me you’re using binoculars,” he said.

_ “Caught me red-handed, Viper,”  _ the boom operator joked.  _ “I’m a delinquent from Venezia, here to stalk you all the way home.” _

“Venezia?” Viper asked. He lined up with the boom just twenty-five meters from the  _ Zumwalt _ . “I grew up in North Tyne.”

_ “Well, I’ll be,” _ she said with a whistle.  _ “A Northsider  _ and _ a flyboy? That’s a rare find.” _

Viper blushed. “I hope you mean in a good way,” he said.

_ “Oh, most definitely,” _ she said.  _ “I hear Northsiders have wonderful teeth.” _

“We sure do,” Viper said. “Although it’s no thanks to the time I spent in an inner-city fight club.”

_“Why don’t you come on closer and show me, then?”_ _Zumwalt_ said.

“Sure thing,” Viper said, smiling. His tone turned slightly more professional as he fine-tuned his approach. “This is Delta 29, ten meters to boom.”

_ “Your approach looks good, Viper. Just a little closer,” _ she answered.  _ “I’ll confirm once you’ve made contact with the boom. You’ll be able to sync your FCS with the  _ Zumwalt’s _ path as soon as you do.” _

As the boom inserted to the fuel gauge atop the Pelican’s fuselage, he looked up and noticed the  _ Zumwalt’s _ tail refueling strobes turned green. He switched the flight control system to a synchronized path and handed it off to the autopilot and pulled his mask off before flashing the boom operator a toothy grin through the cockpit.

The boom operator looked down at him and gave him a confident smile. She seemed small with her short, black hair neatly folded to the left.  _ “Very cute, Viper,” _ she said.  _ “Say… what's with those pylons? What are they doing on a dropship?” _

Viper leaned back, watching the fuel gauge slowly increase. “Cruise missiles. Stand-off cluster bombs. We didn’t have any ground attackers on-hand, so they refitted a few of our Pelicans to carry a special payload for a special mission.”

_ “You’re not pulling my leg with that, are you?”  _ the boom operator snapped playfully.  _ “It’s gonna take a little more to impress a girl like me.” _

Viper knew better than to talk about the details of his mission on an open channel. “Believe it or don’t believe it, Zumwalt,” he said. “But my ship’s on standby with myself and my copilot until the mission’s complete. We have been for about forty-seven hours.”

_ “Well, it does sound exciting… maybe I’ll have to see for myself later. If you’re stationed on the  _ Atago _ , we’re due for a short resupply mission next Monday.” _

It became harder for Viper to wipe the grin off his face. Sure, she was cute and all, but he was relieved to have a real conversation with someone who wasn’t his copilot — a man whose callsign was named after his relentless obsession with cats, and it really showed. “Sure, sure,” Viper said. “But it’s top-secret stuff. If I tell you… well, I just might have to kill you.”

A cheeky laugh exploded over the channel.  _ “I’d like to see you try.” _

“Hey, if I see you there, I’m buyin’.”

_ “All right, all right, flyboy. You talk like a fighter pilot, you know?” _

“Oh, I know. But you talk like a Southsider,” Viper said.

_ “Eastside!” _ she cried. The tanker’s lights winked red again.  _ “All right, refueling complete.” _

Viper stretched his arms above his head, interlocking his fingers, before bringing them back down to the controls and disengaging autopilot. He eased off of the flight path, descending and veering out of the  _ Zumwalt’s _ wake. “Viper, confirmed refueling complete. We’re away. Many thanks.”

_“See you soon,”_ _Zumwalt_ said. _“Zumwalt out.”_

As if on a theatrical cue, Whiskers returned to the cockpit, settling himself back into his seat. “We’re all good?” he asked.

“Yep,” Viper said. “Returning to Rally Point Alpha.”

He rejoined a finger-four formation of Strike Pelicans with the same loadout as Delta 29. They were, in fact, Delta Wing, attached to the UNSC  _ Shrine of Atago _ . It was a risky formation — they were flying just out of range of the enemy air defenses in low orbit, but with no escorts to speak of. At the crucial first few days of the operation, Task Force Blackbird’s forces had been spread thin. Almost all of the tactical air wings aboard the  _ Atago _ and  _ White Bird _ were deployed in a two-pronged assault over key installations in the Thanatos Mountains  _ and _ Sedra City’s fortifications.

“Whiskers,” Viper ordered, “go ahead and get into TADS and get eyes on that base again.” He switched on his radio to the Command channel. “AWACS, this is Delta Two-Niner. Send me some information. Pretty please?”

“Copy,” Whiskers said. He activated the Target Acquisition Designation Sight and pivoted the gun camera mounted to the Pelican’s 70mm HEAP gun downwards. The gun camera appeared in the top right corner of Viper’s HUD. His eyes darted to them and watched, occasionally returning to center to check the dropship’s instruments and heading.

Airborne Warning and Control Ship  _ Juggernaut _ responded to Viper’s hail.  _ “Situation hasn’t changed since you refueled, Viper,” _ he said.  _ “I know it looks hairy down there, but all we can do is wait.” _

Leda Station was fairly large — a full-scale forward operating base, centered around defending large spires, masts, and radar domes. At closer inspection, Viper could see its makeup was largely outdated, though. The base layout was more or less paved and then hobbled together with Covenant War-era prefabbed structures and experimental radar jamming and high-frequency ECM sites. It was disclosed in Delta Flight’s special mission briefing that they were supposedly powerful enough to break any UNSC encryption and even a few Covenant battlenet chatter without the use of a “smart” AI. It was high-end gear Viper might have seen on Reach twenty-five years ago. Now, it was scrap: equivalent to military surplus. It was a miracle that it still worked as well as it did today.

S3 were using all kinds of Old War tech, anyway. Whatever they weren’t buying off of the Anians to help supplement their military, they used everything from the old M808B Scorpions to M850 Grizzlies. Viper had even noticed that the Frost Brigade in particular had dug up and revived some old AC-220 Vultures, UH-144 Falcons, and EV-44 Nightingales. They must have found them from one of the mothballed sloops in the abandoned Sedran shipyards. After all, this place used to be a massive, strategically important wartime naval hub — for an Outer Colony. Now it was dilapidated and irrelevant, sequestered off to a private military corporation for defense rather than the once-sprawling military arm of the UEG. On the frontier world of Sedra, it was Section 3 that brought welfare, security, and a proper job market back in the years following the Human-Covenant War  _ and _ the Praesian War.

Now that they were at war with S3 — or at least a single branch of it — Viper wondered if he was still wearing the white hat.

The base had a strategically interesting layout. It was in the only flat plateau for miles, surrounded by mountainous ridges with a single road leading through a gorge to the main entrance. There was only one way in or out — a double edged sword, easy to defend but difficult to escape. There were gun placements and snipers posted all along the ridges, taking potshots at the ground elements of Task Force Blackbird, which had made their assault hours ago.

Blackbird’s tanks had been stopped in their tracks. Soldiers had used craters from earlier mortar and artillery bombardments as foxholes, and their attack had been bogged into something that resembled an ancient trench line opposite to Leda Station’s thirty-foot tall concrete perimeter wall.

“It looks pretty hot down there,” Viper commented.

“Yeah,” Whiskers said. “I can see the line, too. It’s… it hasn’t moved. You think they’ll make it?”

“I’m sure they will — looks can be deceiving. Our boys could be using active camouflage to get someone behind the line. That’s probably their best bet, anyway.”

“I sure hope so,” Whiskers said, “or this’ll be a really short battle. Hang on. I’m switching to thermals.”

The screen blinked to a series of white-hot silhouettes on a black backdrop. Tracers and missiles arched back and forth between the S3’s perimeter and the entrenched Blackbird forces. Rockets, machine guns, and tank shells crossed the unmanned territory. Airburst grenades splashed all over the lines, wiping out scores of infantry.

Viper shuddered. It was so serene up here. The war was so distant — yet he knew it was so real. Those men were fighting, suffering, and dying. All he could do was wait for the signal.

“Jeez,” he said. Almost immediately, a bright heat signature appeared just above the base.

_ “Whoa!” _ the flight lead, Delta 28 “Mage,” called over the Command channel.

_ “What just happened?” _ Juggernaut called.

“Verifying,” Viper said. “Whiskers—”

“Yeah, switching to FLIR,” Whiskers said. He twisted a knob and cycled through the viewing modes, from WHOT thermals to the standard gun camera, to Forward Looking Infrared. The glance Viper got of the standard camera showed a bright light resting in the air above the base — a green signal flare.  _ Is that the signal? _

The FLIR camera showed something more than just the flash. Two small, blinking lights only visible through infrared night vision optics transponded at the bottom of the ECM masts. Strobes.

“ _ Juggernaut _ , this is Viper, I have visual on the signal. Bingo, bingo, bingo!”

Delta 26 sounded off.  _ “This is Hardcase: I have visual confirmation on bingo.” _

The other two Pelicans in their flight sounded off similar reports. It only took  _ Juggernaut _ a heartbeat to respond.

_ “Acknowledged,” _ he said in a steely voice.  _ “Attention Delta Flight. It’s time!” _

That was the order.

_ “Roger,” _ Delta 28 called. His Pelican listed slowly to the starboard. The rest of the formation followed suit. Viper squeezed his fist triumphantly before kicking the rudder.  _ “Head to bearing one-three-three and descend to negative ten degrees.” _

“Copy,” Viper sounded off. “Bearing one-three-three, negative ten.”

_ “Delta Flight, break.” _

The squad broke their formation apart, spreading out. Viper turned the Pelican slightly to starboard, lining up with his HUD’s compass indicator of 133, and pointing the ship slightly down. This lined the craft up almost perfectly with the base, which was nearly a hundred kilometers away. Since the missile payload wouldn’t be able to be guided by aircraft radar assistance, they couldn’t maintain a lock with the IR strobes on the ground. They would have to be dumb-fired and counted on to cruise over their target before locking on to the UNSC transponders in the strobe lights and release their bomblets. It was pure chance as to whether or not they could reach their targets before being intercepted.

The Marines on the ground had done their part. It was time for them to rely on their close air support. It was time to rely on Viper, Whiskers, and the rest of Delta Flight.

_ “Delta Flight, this is  _ Juggernaut _. You are weapons free.” _

_ “Roger,  _ Juggernaut _. Delta Two-Eight, Fox Three.” _

The lead Strike Pelican released both of its missiles. They streamed ahead, cruising beyond the squadron.

“Delta Two-Niner,” Viper said, “Fox Three.” He switched off the com. “Whiskers,” he ordered.

“Answering Fox Three,” Whiskers said, and launched both of the cruise missiles. Vapor trails arced in front of the Pelican, swallowing the cockpit whole. He pulled up and broke off, rejoining his squadron leader.

_ “Delta Two-Six, Fox Three,” _ another voice called.

_ “Delta Two-Seven, Fox Three,” _ the last one said.  _ “Rejoining formation.” _

_“Missiles have entered the dead zone,”_ _Juggernaut_ reported. His voice frayed. _“Unable to track them by radar. Maintain visual contact.”_

He watched Whiskers’ gun camera track the eight cruise missiles to their target. A pit of anxiety swelled in his stomach. High in the sky, in the dead of night, time seemed to stop. He was on the edge of his seat. It was just like his days in the Praesian War. The familiar adrenaline rush coursed through his veins.

The real war was about to begin.

**——**

**1700 Hours, 10 April 2577 (Military Calendar)**

**Grid 26-55, Far Northern Theater, Sedra**

**Four hours ago**

**Battle of Leda Station. 1700/10/4/2577-0200/11/4/2577**

**26°11’29”N 55°01’78”W**

**Mission: “Operation Aurora”**

**Belligerents:**

UNSC Task Force Blackbird

Section 3 Defense Contracting Corporation, Sedra Division

**Commanders:**

Maj. J. F. Hamilton (UNSC Marine Corps), Radm. R. E. Hayes (UNSC Navy)

Base Commandant H. A. Watson (S3 Northern Industro-Military Sector)

**Outcome:** UNSC victory. Blackbird forces obtained forward operating base and expanded deployment at Leda Station. UNSC suffered heavy losses in the initial attack, but gained an essential foothold for the campaign.

Main battle tanks erupted volleys one after another like a line of Napoleonic fusiliers. Clouds of smoke exploded from the ground forces’ left flank to the right following brilliant flashes. Tracers caked Leda Station’s outer concrete wall, followed by peppered explosions.

The shockwaves from the tanks firing shook Locke completely, even with fully sealed ear protection. “All right,” he said, trembling with excitement. “We got the first shots!”

Without any coms, it would be extremely difficult for the tank crews to coordinate. Braxton had instead delegated specific instructions to every team leader on the field, orchestrating an extremely complex but inflexible formation and battle plan with very few contingencies. The first stage was establishing a wide enough angle of attack that it would make it harder for the enemy to outflank Blackbird’s ground element.

Gauss trucks growled ahead and deployed their guns, halting in the front of the mobile line and opening fire on the wall hundreds of meters down range.

Dozens of Marines sprinted down the stretch of flat land before dispersing from their lines and breaking for cover, anything they could find — snow mounds, tank traps, craters of carbonized permafrost, and vehicle-launched smoke grenades. Snow-white plumes enveloped the field ahead. Locke got moving behind the last squad, following them into the smoke. He huffed with every bound, filling his lungs with the familiar but caustic stench of vinegary, phosphorescent smoke.

The enemy returned fire. Tracers darted back. Rockets screamed overhead, some meters above him, some only inches away. Near miss after near miss. One of the Scorpions took an anti-tank shell and threw a track. Eventually, laser fire began to cut through the smoke. Green-hot beams glanced the ice. Stray shots pierced Marines out of cover, although some of them were diffused by the smoke and were not as lethal as at closer range.

Marines yelled, shouted, and jeered. Morale was high in the first hours of battle, but Locke knew that once they got closer to Leda Station’s outer wall they would start suffering casualties. They still had almost a kilometer to go.

Locke heard a loud, mechanical thud following an explosion beyond the smoke. An engine died. As the smoke cleared, he could see one of the Gauss trucks had been hit and turned over, leaving it burning and inoperable. One of the platoon lieutenants, Granger, got up and yelled: “Smoke’s clearing! Marines, get ready to move!”

Some other team leaders ordered their men to do the same. As the smoke cleared again, grenadiers launched smoke grenades a hundred meters ahead. The Marines waited for them to plume significantly before charging again.

The cover was thinner on this stretch. Locke and Hayden followed, sticking together. Nova was split into several two-man “buddy” teams for this operation because of the inevitable confusion. They were ordered to support the assault in every way they could, but coordinate as one unit only when necessary. Locke passed Tiamat and Iyanna at one point — a natural sniper team and a buddy combination that didn’t surprise him in the slightest — and pantomimed a tip of the hat before they diverged into the chaos again.

At the back of the second charge, Locke slid into cover behind a cropped up slab of permafrost. A few laser bolts splashed into it, causing him and Hayden to duck down reflexively. He raised his BR55 and scoped in to the base, now that they were a little closer.

In front of the well-fortified walls pockmarked with dents and scorch marks from the dual-barrel, 120mm, smoothbore M850 Grizzly tanks’ barrages were what looked like honest-to-God trench lines. S3 troops were holed up in them with marksmen only poking their heads up to make a potshot — and antitank riflemen sticking their necks out to launch missiles at Blackbird’s armor. Each hard angle of the trenches were reinforced by prefabricated steel and concrete pillboxes that were low to the ground and sleek enough to deflect tank shells at the right angle. Even from here, though, Locke could see a few shot traps that a skilled or lucky Scorpion gunner might be able to nail.

Kodiak armored personnel carriers rolled to the front of the line, passing the Marines into the vaporizing smoke. That meant the plan’s first stage was almost over. One more push — then Hamilton figured the Marines would be forced to dig in. Another round of smoke grenades coated the front, and the men moved again. Locke and Hayden kept to the rear once more.

This time, however, when they reached the clearing, they’d gone too far. Airburst grenade shells exploded ten meters above the first lines of troops, popping like flak and raining shrapnel into the Marines. Accurate laser fire cut through the smoke, shredding droves of infantry. The right and left flanks opened up from the ridges of the plateaus on either side. Snipers and machine guns from nests and bunkers no one could see picked off the vanguard and the flanks. A few rockets and missiles struck the APCs, killing them, their crews, and fourteen passengers at a time.

The sky whistled. Locke knew that sound better than anyone.

“Get down!” he shouted to Hayden, and dove for the snow. There was no other cover. He just laid flat in the snow, and hoped to avoid a stray shot.

Hayden dove as well right behind him. He dropped his MA56 and locked his fingers over his helmet for good measure.

The ground shook. Artillery shells slammed into the dirt, creating a deafening rumble that shook Locke to his core. They grew closer, and closer, and closer, and then further, passing him harmlessly. Secondary explosions rocked them both after the barrage broke.

He slowly looked up. Thirty meters ahead there was what looked like a small trench, just past the dozen bodies that used to be a rifle squad and a half of Marines charging for cover in that same area. Locke nudged Hayden and pointed to the divet in the icy ground, and waved to move. Hayden nodded.

Locke pushed off and was in a full sprint in just a second. Rocket fire and artillery splashed the ground dozens of meters away. He was fixed on the only piece of cover for fifty meters like he had tunnel vision. When he made it, he dropped a few meters behind and let himself slide into the trench. Hayden followed, swearing behind him as they landed on a mangled corpse that had plastered the bottom of the permafrost ditch in fresh crimson.

Still carrying the energy from the slide, Locke slammed into the ice-cold wall of the trench. He peeked up just high enough to see the wall and ducked back down as a burst of laser fire glanced off the dirt on the surface, and faced Hayden. “You all right, mate?”

Hayden nodded, pulling down his face mask. “Yeah,” he said. Locke read his lips. “Yeah, I’m good.”

_ This isn’t good, though _ , Locke thought. Dozens of Marines were killed in that one barrage. They were taking casualties from all sides but back, now. Right off the bat, Blackbird’s forward ground element was missing 30% of its ground forces. It was too early to call for reinforcements — and too late to retreat.

The array of Grizzlies in the back of the formation opened fire again, unleashing a series of thunderclaps. Locke peeked just over the top to see the shells’ impacts. They exploded all over the wall, but one of them tore down a radar mast behind it. The sailor ducked back down again, turning to Hayden. It gave him an idea. “I’m going to switch on my short-range coms,” he said. “Let me know if you hear anything.”

Hayden nodded with a slightly confused look in his eyes.

Locke reached to the back of his rig, pulling his receiver out of the pouch that held it snugly in place, and twisted the volume knob up. The uplink immediately reconnected to his push-to-talk and his helmet. A satisfying tone answered him in his sealed hearing protection/helmet coms, or SHP/HC combo. “This is Locke, does anyone copy?” he tested. “All callsigns Nova, respond.”

Hayden raised his thumb, to Locke’s surprise and elation.  _ “What just happened?” _ a gruff female voice answered immediately. It was Nex.

“One of the tanks took out a radar mast. It seems like we have short-range coms back online.”

_ “Copy that,” _ she said.  _ “Everyone sound off. I need to know who’s on this channel. I’m also going to hit the command channel and let the other squads know.” _

A cacophony of radio protocols erupted in the com for several minutes as the rest of the squadron all checked in, Hayden included. Everyone was accounted for.

_ “Roger,” _ Nex said,  _ “standby.” _

All of the squad members were tapped into the command channel, so even though Locke wasn’t permitted to broadcast on it, he could hear all transmissions — so long as they weren’t being jammed.

_ “This is Nex to all answering groups. Short-range coms appear to be online again. Please confirm, over.” _

_ “Blackbird Actual here, I read you loud and clear,” _ Hamilton’s voice crackled over the CMD channel.  _ “It’s a Goddamned miracle.” _

_ “Wolverine Actual speaking,” _ Locke heard Adler cut in.  _ “One of the tanks had a lucky shot, then?” _

_ “Something like that,” _ Shu answered.  _ “This is Dragon Squad, our coms are back online.” _

A dozen more teams sounded off before Hamilton took note of the teams on the field that didn’t — for one reason or another.

_ “I am confirming now that I have no contact with AWACS  _ Juggernaut _ nor any command elements aboard the  _ Valley Forge _ or the  _ Atago _. We’re still on our own, but... We’re on our own together.” _

_ “Hooyah,” _ Nex answered.

There was a pause before Hamilton spoke again.  _ “This is Blackbird Actual to all available teams. I need sniper teams on the right and left flanks. Coordinate with drone operators from Wolverine and Snake Pit to find artillery spotters and anti-tank marksmen. You copy that?” _

The next two people to sound off was Nex and the leader of a sniper-sentry team from the 111th Recon Marines, a Staff Sergeant Stelar. Nex had Tiamat and Iyanna link up with one of Adler’s men. Stelar grouped up with one of the Marines from the squad called Snake Pit.

“Well, what about us?” Locke asked on the squad channel. He didn’t expect an answer, but he got one anyway.

_ “Support any squad you can,” _ Nex said.  _ “Tiamat and Iyanna are supporting hunter-killer teams. If you’ve got heavy weapons, take out one of those watchtowers. If you’ve got a machine gun, lay down suppressing fire and get one of the squads moving. I know Hayden has a UBGL — use it. We need to cover as much ground as possible, as quickly as possible, with as few casualties as possible.” _

It was a tall order with a dangerously vague objective, Locke thought,  _ but what else is new? _ He smirked when he noticed that with that look on Hayden’s face, his buddy must have been thinking the same thing. Hayden absentmindedly unloaded the 40mm HE-DP shell from his MA56’s underbarrel grenade launcher and stuffed a white-tipped smoke shell into the breech.

Locke got up, peeking the top of the trench and looking right. A squad of Marines were pinned down by a smoldering Kodiak. Some of them tried to reach out of cover to provide suppressing fire for the survivors of the wrecked APC, but took glancing and wounding hits.

“Over there, it looks like a whole squad’s pinned down,” he said.

_ “Copy,” _ Hayden said, rising with his MA56 leveled.  _ “I can send a smoke shell pretty far down, but you’ll have to tell them to move.” _

Locke shrugged. “I guess I can do that. Wait for my signal.”

Hayden clicked his PTT twice as Locke got up and sprinted across, catching near misses all the way over before sliding behind a tank trap, rolling in the snow, and winding up behind a Master Sergeant Comey.

“Yo,” Comey shouted, turning around, and noticing Locke’s ONI patch — and his rank tag. “... Sir.”

“We’re gonna get you moving, Sergeant,” Locke enunciated. “Can you get them down to that outcropping by the Kodiak down there?”

Comey turned back to the front, then back to Locke. “The one that’s missing two wheels?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Locke said. “There should be enough cover for your team. I have a buddy with a smoke shell, and I’ve got an extra can here.” He pointed to his battle belt, which holstered a M180 smoke grenade.

Comey gave Locke a concerned look, then seemed to stifle it immediately. “Right. Launch the smoke and I’ll give the order.”

Locke gave a thumbs up and clicked his PTT. “Hayden, send it. Thirty meters, my twelve. They’re running for the outcropping near the disabled Kodiak about seventy meters straight down, over.”

_ “I see it,” _ Hayden responded.  _ “Thirty meters, your twelve.” _

Locke didn’t hear it, but he saw the shell trail past from his left, landing firmly in the snow and billowing smoke out.

“Tiamat,” Locke said into the squad channel. “What’s the status on those snipers?”

_ “The left flank is clear,” _ Tiamat said.  _ “Mortar spotters are still up, and there’s two HMG nests—” _ a loud gunshot thundered over the channel.  _ “Make that one HMG nest still active. Over.” _

“Roger,” Locke said. “Cheers. Out.”

The smoke thickened to Comey’s liking and he ordered his Marines to cross the snowfields. Increasingly accurate laser fire cut through it and picked off a few of his men. Impossible shots broke the smoke layer and shredded more, until only five made it to the outcropping on the other side of the smoke.

A well-formed knot churned in Locke’s stomach. He sent most of those men to die just to gain more ground. The rubber hit the road… and spilled a gallon of blood.

The anti-tank rifleman dropped in the back of their formation, screaming and wailing for help. That pushed Locke over the edge.

All of the doubts in his mind vanished. Locke knew that fear evaporated in combat — when the gunfire is loud, the adrenaline is pumping, and death is right around the corner, you throw out fear. But the doubt stays. That nagging tone of snap-judgments and unfeeling doubt remains in its wake. Locke evaporated his doubt in just a second. Banished it with an unthinking impulse and kicked out of cover, bolting after the injured Marine.

Once again, white-hot bolts of energy screeched past, reminding him of wars long past with the Anians and Praesians. He swore under his breath as a laser nearly took his head off.

_ “All units, be advised,” _ Hamilton shouted over the command channel.  _ “We have reason to believe the enemy is using advanced backscatter optical technology. The smoke is useless as concealment.” _

Locke swore even louder as he slid behind a small crater just a few meters from the injured soldier. He raised himself to a kneeling crouch and counted the near-misses as he turned back, waving to a machine gunner from another squad. “Cover me!” he shouted, “cover me, God-damn it!”

Just as he thought he wasn’t making a difference, the gunner leaned into his M739 Mod 2 and squeezed off a few bursts just over Locke’s head and to the right ten meters. That drew the enemy fire straight to him, almost immediately, freeing up Locke and his new wounded brother. He got up, ran over to the silent Marine, grabbed his rig, and started dragging him back to cover.

It was much longer coming back then going forth. Through the smoke, Locke couldn’t see anything: he couldn’t see the enemy base, he couldn’t see the tracers, and he couldn’t see the snipers lining up shots on him as he moved. It made things easier. The machine gunner he ordered to cover him went silent, slumped over his LMG, smoke rising from his face buried in the snow. Three shots struck the cover Locke had just barely managed to drag his man behind.

Hayden chuckled over the com.  _ “Well, that wasn’t very smart,” _ he said.

“No, I guess not, but I couldn’t just sit there and let that guy—” Locke stopped as he inspected the wounded Marine when his eyes cut to the man’s glassy, motionless blue eyes. He checked the Marine’s body, ripping open the armor and examining the wound. There was a blast mark on the right side of his chest, a non-critical area. Unfortunately, it was a superheated laser bolt that struck him. Like Covenant plasma, the impact broiled several of his organs — most likely, including his heart.

_ “Is he gonna make it?” _ Hayden asked before jumping into Locke’s cover behind him. He stopped when he crouched just below it.

Locke looked up at him and shook his head. Hayden leaned back on the low permafrost wall, sighing. “We’re never gonna get any ground like this,” Locke said. He poked his head out as the smoke cleared.

Three M808B Scorpions rolled onto the field from the maws of Leda Station and picked off a pair of Kodiaks. The line pushed further back again as they closed in, using the low hills as cover from Blackbird’s tanks and anti-tank missiles. Locke called them out, ducking back in.  _ “Those are probably related to the problem,” _ Hayden said.  _ “Our AT is running thin, too. Can’t rely on the tanks to do everything.” _

Locke nodded, and checked the anti-tank rifleman again. He had a large ruck with an M20 130mm ATGM, but he left his M41 SPNKr Block II in the field. The Block II modification completely phased out the M41 SPNKr program in 2570, overhauling the age-old rocket launcher. The men upstairs removed the second tube altogether, enlarged the main assembly to accommodate the 130mm ATGMs, strengthened the bore for reusability, and attached a targeting computer to the body, capable of datalinking the missile and enabling it to use a top-attack profile. When it first entered service ten years ago, it looked nothing like the original launcher — it worked nothing like it, either.

“I’m gonna make a run for the SPNKr,” Locke said, eyeing around the rest of the field. He didn’t see any other Marines still alive with missile launchers.

_ “You’re going out there again?” _ Hayden asked. He already had his answer. Locke’s only friend squeezed his shoulder and then gave it a firm pat.  _ “Right, good luck,” _ was all he said.

Locke undid the sling around his BR55 and dropped it at his feet, breaking into a full sprint out in the open for the exposed M41 Block II. When he reached it, he nearly fumbled for the thing and scooped it up in both of his arms. It was heavy, like lifting a large, concrete pipe filled with water. Retreating with the damn thing was going to be a lot harder — and more dangerous — than Locke thought.

He did it anyway. Desperation oozed through his veins instead of blood. All he could think about were the near-misses and the intense strain on his arms from lifting the M41.  _ How did this bastard carry this thing all the way here? And with a backpack full of spare missiles? _

He dropped behind cover again next to Hayden, his knees instantly buckling, and plopped the M41 Block II onto the permafrost with a loud thump. “Voila,” he said triumphantly with a wheeze. “We are now an AT crew.”

Even though the chatter had been going on constantly throughout the battle, Locke had tuned out most of it. Something caught his attention, however.

_ “Korudo, Larock, I just got word from Dragon Squad,” _ Nex called.  _ “They’re setting up a 247-Hotel in conjunction with Wolverine’s HMG. Cover them.” _

Larock’s distressed voice snapped back.  _ “What do you expect us to do? They’re way out of range!” _

Locke smirked. “Draw their fire, rookie,” he said as he switched the targeting computer on and shouldered the M41 Block II. “Give them a target juicier than Dragon’s tripod, break.”

_ “Roger that,” _ Larock said with a sigh.

“Hey, all Nova callsigns, I’ve got my hands on a SPNKr Block II. Someone with a rangefinder send me some data on the Scorpion to the left about one-hundred-fifty meters from my position.”

_ “Your position?” _ Iyanna asked.

“Yeah,” Locke said. “We’re along the left flank of the offensive—” he was cut off when Iyanna materialized out of thin air right next to him, startling Hayden. “Well, that’s convenient,” he said.

_ “I have eyes on the tank,” _ Iyanna said. He couldn’t read her lips so long as she was wearing the fully-sealed Kaelorian stealth power armor.

“Lase it,” Locke said. “If you’ve got one.”

She pulled out an AN/PEQ-165, lining up the eyepiece with her helmet’s visor.  _ “Range - one-six-four. Bearing three-four-four. Wind good. Smoke good. Top attack path clear.” _

“You sound like a natural,” Locke said, fiddling with the knobs. He never actually handled one of the ATGM SPNKrs before. It was not very intuitive.

_ “Are you just gonna sit there, or are you gonna shoot?” _

“Hang on,” Locke muttered with a swear. “Top attack profile. Locking on…” he said as he squeezed the front trigger, activating the active radar tracking system. It immediately whined and blew static at him. “Fuck, the jammers. I guess we still don’t have FCS.”

_ “Switch to stand-off top attack profile and calibrate for under 100 meters,” _ Hayden said.

“But the target is further away than a hundred meters,” Locke said.

_ “Just do it!” _ Hayden barked.

“Copy,” Locke said, twiddling with the knobs and a few of the buttons. He finally got the setting right. “Lined up. Not tracking.”

_ “Painting,”  _ Iyanna said.  _ “Prepare to fire, on your command.” _

“Clear backblast!”

Hayden dropped a gloved hand on Locke’s shoulder.  _ “Clear!” _ he shouted.

Locke squeezed the M41’s trigger. The HUD screen winked ‘STAND OFF’ as the missile left the tube, shooting out the front. The missile itself was humongous, like it belonged on the hardpoints of an ESFX-41 Broadsword Block 30/32. It probably had about as much electronics, fuel, and payload if it was going to punch through a Scorpion MBT’s armor. It soared high into the air before suddenly turning, locked on to the Scorpion on the field.

Hayden pulled Locke back into cover, causing him to drop the ATGM launcher as a salvo of high-powered laser beams struck the permafrost just where Locke was kneeling. “Thanks,” he said.

_ “Target confirmed hit! Good kill!” _ Iyanna shouted.

_ “Who took out that tank?” _ Nex asked. Locke grinned as Iyanna relayed to her that it was his missile.  _ “Nice shot, Locke,” _ she replied.  _ “Another one of those and we’re freed up a little. Larock, Korudo, you can stop sponging up enemy fire now. Dragon and Wolverine are done setting up their HMGs. If they combine their fire, they might be able to disable another Scorpion.” _

Locke reached for his rifle but stayed put. As long as the enemy knew they were still alive with this M41, they wouldn’t give him an opportunity to use it again.

——

**1925 Hours, 10 April 2577 (Military Calendar)**

**Outer Perimeter, Sedra City, Sedra**

**Two hours ago**

**First Battle of Sedra City. 1800/10/4/2577-0030/11/4/2577**

**27°45’11”N 35°02’99”W**

**Mission: “Operation Thunderhead”**

**Belligerents:**

UNSC Task Force Blackbird

Section 3 Defense Contracting, Sedra Division

**Commanders:**

Cdr. E. S. Schafer (UNSC Navy), Radm. R. E. Hayes (UNSC Navy)

Field Commander N. U. Sharpton (S3 Tactical Metropolitan Air Defense Command), Colonel A. W. Winters (S3 Frost Brigade Strategic Headquarters)

**Outcome:** Decisive S3 victory; critical UNSC defeat. UNSC forces failed to obtain a foothold on the human settlement, caused civilian casualties and damage to civilian property, and swayed public opinion against them. S3 maintained air superiority, deploying their Aerial Arsenal Ship and fleet of UCAVs for the first time.

There was a lot of noise from the cockpit, the instruments, the radar, and Bitching Betty, but all Warrant Officer Archer listened to was the sound of Sky Holder’s relaxed, confident voice.

_ “Condor Squadron, Harpy Squadron, Razor Squadron, you’re entering the dead zone now. Stay icy. Stick to the plan. You know your jobs.” _

“This is Raptor. Copy, AWACS,” Archer answered with his coolest voice. “You know me. We’ll be back before sunrise.”

_ “I forgot to mention: I’ve got a few connections with the mess staff aboard the  _ White Bird _. There’ll be peach pie waiting for you. Sky Holder out.” _

With a grin that didn’t last long, Archer punched the throttle to his ESFX-41 Super Broadsword, bringing his speed remarkably close to the sound barrier. Glass, his second-in-command, followed closely behind in her modified exoatmospheric supremacy fighter. Righty, Magic, and Wipeout followed closely behind in a tight Vic formation. Two other squadrons of five tailed them, reducing their altitude and increasing their speed. They had been selected from the  _ Atago _ ,  _ White Bird _ , and  _ Dawn Under Heaven _ to conduct the opening SEAD operations, or Suppression of Enemy Air Defense, against the S3’s hold on Sedra City; they were sent on a mission to ‘soften them up’ before the ground forces could arrive and begin their assault. All this was happening while the UNSC risked the other half of its ground element attacking Leda Station in the Northern Front. Two battles — two fronts — one night. Archer had to admit, the Task Force had amassed just enough resources to pull this off.

Even still, they were stretched thin.  _ Three _ squadrons deployed on a SEAD mission with no electronic supports to speak of, in a radar and coms dead zone, with a three hour window, and where the enemy maintained air superiority? Obviously, the mission was volunteer-only. If they weren’t the experimental squadron attached to the  _ Atago _ , Archer would have certainly refused.

The other two squadrons, Harpy and Razor? They weren’t experimental. They had F-41 Broadsword Block 30/32s. They weren’t Praesian War veterans, either. Archer was convinced that they were either fresh-blooded Navy hot-dogs with something to prove, or fucking insane.

Archer could see on the radar that they had crossed the “magic line,” a red dotted line marking the dead zone surrounding Sedra City. S3 had somehow obtained all of the UNSC frequencies being used by Task Force Blackbird and blocked it through Leda Station in the north. Archer only hoped that the forces attacking the north simultaneously could at least take out the radar jamming array soon. That might have given his squadron the edge it needed.

The cockpit of the Exoatmospheric Superiority Fighter - Experimental (or ESFX), Type 41, a heavily modified, ten-year-old derivative of the Broadsword, was strange. There was no transparent silica-ceramic “glass” to speak of. Instead of a normal viewscreen, the Broadsword’s cockpit was an enclosed, reinforced capsule with dozens of fiber-optic cameras covering as many possible angles of view as they could manage, as well as backups. This gave Archer almost 360 degrees of visibility: forward, aft, above, below, port, starboard. It was revolutionary.

While the ESFX program created minor adjustments to the already-successful F-41 Block 30/32 upgrades, the difference between the original F-41 and Block 30/32 were night and day. The Block 30/32 was lighter, faster, sleeker, and resembled a 22nd-century superplane more than an exospheric starfighter. Its electronics suite carried over, but the Block 30/32 solidified itself as a true air superiority fighter. The main external differences between the two were the flatter, aerodynamic profile of the Block 30/32, thinner, wider wings, external jet engines that allowed for thrust vectoring, large vertical stabilizers on the aft, and canards mounted on the nose. These differences made it a much more stable and agile platform in atmospheric combat, outclassing many of the F-41’s counterparts. Almost every tactical fighter wing, including the ones deployed with Task Force Blackbird, had replaced their F-41s with F-41 Block 30/32s.

The ESFX-41, however, was much more angular and stealthy, with stealth ablative coatings and modified body shape giving it the radar cross-section of a ball bearing and liberal use of all functions related to the CFNI and SAFE-B systems, making it a truly next generation dominator of the skies and battlespaces alike.

Many of the functions of the enhanced HUD were meant to streamline information and compensate for the sensory overload that this could mean. The same could be said for the neural interface and the genetic augmentations made to Archer’s physiology. On the surface level, the changes were obvious. They increased his reaction time tenfold, and changed the properties of his blood to, momentarily, withstand higher-G turns without fazing him. However, there was more than just that. The genetic augmentations closed in some of his neural synapses to make thinking on his feet easier — and to make the connection to flight neural interface (CFNI) smoother with the complicated SAFE-B helmet and heads-up display system. There was simply more information being streamed at any time from the Broadsword’s flight control system to Archer’s brain directly. There needed to be subtle changes to allow for that, even enabling him to fight at peak effectiveness.

There were other candidates, of course. The primaries were members of Condor Squadron, most notably his wingman Glass, and an old colleague from the Praesian War, Warrant Officer Northgate. They all used to be in the same squadron, however Northgate was transferred to another experimental unit that attempted a similar project on Broadswords for rapid deployment of special forces. They hadn’t been in contact since. Not until Operation Blackout, at least.

It had been just over five years. Although they were all fighting on a different front from their comrade, it felt like old times again.

“Gun it!” Archer barked, finally, as they buzzed the evergreen canopies of the Sedran East Highlands. His voice oozed an elation he hadn’t felt in years. Nostalgia trickled down from the top of his head to the toes in his boots. The veteran pilot squeezed the stick just a little tighter before loosening up again.

_ “Copy,” _ Glass said. She was itching to hear it again.  _ “Just like old times, huh?” _

_ “Razor Lead to all squadrons, I’ve just lost contact with Sky Holder. Confirm,” _ the WINGCOM channel buzzed.

Archer probed Sky Holder on the secure channel and waited for a response. “Affirmative,” he said, switching to WINGCOM. “Dead zone confirmed. It’s just us and the trees.”

_ “Acknowledged, Condor One,” _ Razor 1 said.  _ “Be advised, as long as we’re in the dead zone we’re at risk of detection by enemy air defenses. Altitude restriction is in place. Imposing radio silence at Level Two — emergency chatter only.” _

A wash of green status lights appeared on SQUADCOM. Glass, Wipeout, Righty, and Magic gave their silent acknowledgments. Raptor represented them by answering a green light on WINGCOM, followed by Harpy 1 and Razor 1. He thumbed the Mastersafe control switch off. The HUD flashed “WEAPONS HOT” for a second, and a new interface initialized with a satisfying tone.

The fighters nearly clutched the ground as they raced through the enemy airspace. It took them ten minutes before Raptor could see the skyscrapers.

It was amazing how much Sedra had changed over the years. From the end of the Covenant War, it had pulled itself out of an economic depression and only continued to prosper — especially for an outer colony. This much was true: the deployment of S3 oversaw a massive boon to the economy and the job market. Sedra City had grown almost six times in size, and was surrounded by a large, self-sustaining industrial and agricultural sector. It wasn’t long before Raptor was buzzing newly-built suburbs surrounding the city, just beyond the rural farms that cleared out most of the woodland.

They closed in on the city’s skyline. Towers of glass and steel reached up and scraped the black sky. He could see them on night vision scopes, but without them there were only collision lights blinking at the tops of their masts: a thousand angry eyes, staring him down from above.

He saw Razor 1’s plane break off and climb. Automatically, the other squadrons broke. It was all part of the plan.

_ “Radio silence lifted,” _ Razor 1 called, his voice straining from the Gs.  _ “I’ve got positive radar pings. Hurry up and find them before they shut them down.” _

“Roger,” Raptor said. “Condor, break. Fan out and increase speed to seven hundred knots. Maintain altitude.”

_ “SAM tracking me,” _ Razor 1 said.  _ “Releasing decoy now.” _

Raptor caught a blip on his radar. It was a long-range low frequency tone.  _ Bingo. _ “Target acquired,” he said, accelerating and banking his plane right. He willed the targeting computer to slave all radar contacts to his HUD. A green hexagon lit up atop of a six-story building in a suburb. His IFF unit identified it as a radar station. It must have been airlifted to the roof.

A missile blasted off of a rooftop just across the street, streaking over Raptor’s approach and veering towards Razor 1.

Once he got in range, he selected the XM-1995 High-Intensity Plasma Repeater and lined up the crosshair with his target and squeezed the trigger. “Guns, guns, guns,” he said. The nose dazzled a white-hot flash as his fighter rained laser-precise streaks of lightning onto the radar station.

_ “Whoa, I can’t—!” _ Razor 1 cried. He flooded the channel with static.

Raptor pulled the stick as hard as he could, climbing, and snapped his head back. At the same time that Raptor 1’s status light turned from green to red, the squadron leader’s craft burst into flames as it intercepted with the surface-to-air missile’s contrail. It twirled, rolled, and spewed fire, oil, and smoke as it plummeted into the suburbs.

Raptor rolled his plane and dove under the radar net again. “Razor 1 down! I just confirmed it; no chute.”

_ “Jesus,” _ Glass said.  _ “The enemy must be using advanced missiles. They’re resistant to decoys.” _

_ “Condor 1,” _ Harpy 1 barked,  _ “take tactical command of the mission.” _

“Will do,” Raptor said. “This is Condor 1: all planes, fan out and stay under the SAMs’ launch vector. If you get spiked, jink immediately. Don’t screw around.”

Acknowledgment lights winked across the board. Raptor found the SAM site that killed Razor 1 and let off a burst. Superheated plasma vaporized the missile tank before it could fire its guns back.

They began hunting. Quickly, the other two squadrons fanned out and covered more ground in pairs. Glass stuck to Raptor’s starboard side. They buzzed the suburbs and solar farms surrounding Sedra City, marking and knocking out radar sites and missile launchers as they appeared on their scopes.

An hour passed. Raptor nearly cleared his missile rack — three more fighters from Harpy and Razor squadron were shot down in the span, and they had only barely made a dent in the enemy’s anti-aircraft network. The altitude restriction, the constant missile locks, and the increasingly accurate AA-fire was increasing the pressure. Hayes had severely underestimated the city’s air defenses.

“Mission clock,” Raptor said, “reading one hour ten minutes extended. We’re almost at our window.”

_ “Not good enough,” _ Glass said. She pulled her plane a little closer to Raptor’s, tightening the formation.  _ “I can’t get a strong data link in all this noise. What the hell are they doing in the north?” _

“Whatever it is, it’s taking too long,” Raptor said. “Thirty minutes. If we still can’t reach Sky Holder, I’m calling it.”

_ “Roger,” _ Razor 2 said.

_ “Roger,” _ Harpy 1 said.

Just then, his HUD alerted him. A large radar contact was closing in on the city, from the southside Grayson AFB. If his reading was correct — and it probably wasn’t — it was the size of a city block.

“Heads up,” Raptor said. “New radar contact. Large bogey coming in from bearing 182.”

_ “I’ve got visual,” _ Harpy 1 called.  _ “It’s… holy shit.” _

“What do you see?” Raptor asked. He pulled up and climbed a hundred meters, gaining speed. It was at low altitude, just behind the city’s spire-like skyline. He saw it just as his radar went off again. He kited the missile off and dumped flares and chaff, breaking right hard, before getting another look.

It was a giant, flying-wing Partholon-class aerial arsenal ship, a state-of-the-art Anian drone and missile carrier propelled by six small thrusters along the wings and two large thrusters on the center aft of the body. The Partholon-class ships the Anians used were typically outfitted with point-defense lasers and redundant electronic countermeasures. They could also carry dozens of unmanned combat aerial vehicles, or UCAVs, as well as almost a hundred cruise missiles. If this aerial arsenal ship harbored even half the offensive capability as this one, they were not going to continue this mission.

“Confirmed, I have eyes on,” Raptor said. “It’s a Partholon-class aerial arsenal ship.”

_ “What are your orders?” _ Razor 2 asked.

He wasn’t sure what to say next. The second phase of the plan couldn’t continue with that beast there. Without any more support, they were on their last legs. They’d almost taken unacceptable losses this far — but how many more people would die if they entered a battle with this thing without knowing its capabilities?

“All planes,” Raptor said after taking a deep breath. “Knock out the surrounding radar and SAMs to create a temporary blind spot surrounding that thing. We’re going to assess its combat capabilities and exfiltrate the AO when mission clock reads one-hour-thirty.”

_ “Does that mean the SEAD mission is a failure?” _ Glass asked.

“Affirmative,” Raptor said after a heartbeat’s pause. “Condor Squadron, we’re getting in the thick of it. Harpy Squadron, Razor Squadron, cover our approach.”

Acknowledgment lights winked green across the board. “Mission updates now,” Raptor said, yanking the stick. His Super Broadsword pulled hard, gaining altitude. He gunned it for the arsenal ship, followed closely only by his squadmates. “Stay close, Condor, we’re going to buzz it. Make sure your gun cameras still work.”

_ “Damn it, I have no data,” _ Glass said.  _ “I can’t even identify a weak point, let alone lock on.” _

“Can you track its heat signature?” Raptor asked, trying it himself. He got a positive lock on the whole ship.

_ “Affirmative,” _ Glass answered.

“Weapons free,” Raptor said. He inverted his plane and released his last AIM-249. “Fox Two.”

Missiles streaked towards the aerial arsenal ship. They closed to six hundred meters, head on. Raptor pulled down, dropping altitude and leveling off, looking up to watch the trajectory of the missiles.

At three hundred meters to target, an array of green-hot laser beams emitted from the forward flying wings of the arsenal ship, intercepting and detonating the missile warheads one by one. They started tracking the other fighters, as well. One struck a Razor fighter, taking the starboard wing out and blasting it into an uncontrollable tailspin. Another split a Broadsword in Harpy’s ranks right down the middle, igniting the fuel reserves instantly and swallowing it whole in a bright orange fireball.

“God damn it,” Raptor seethed between shorter breaths.  _ More dead. We’re losing too many, and not taking enough. _ He thumbed his push-to-talk. “All planes, break off!” he shouted. He felt anger. He felt fear. He felt guilt. One of these feelings was strangling him — or, perhaps, all three of them were.

He laid a burst of plasma into the ship’s hull as he passed it, then yanked the stick as hard as he could. The plane pulled up at incredible speed, with the absurd responsiveness he’d grown accustomed to — and pulled a twelve-G turn, one that would have incapacitated any normal pilot, but thanks to his genetic augmentations, Raptor could make with ease. His plane looped around the aerial arsenal ship, crossing its jet wash and leveling above it. He craned his neck back to see missile trails streaking out of the topside silos as the radar warning returned.

Before he passed the underbelly of the ship, though, he noticed a large mass protruding underneath: several dozen F-99 Wombat UCAVs docked to external hardpoints all across the lower bow of the arsenal ship.  _ Yikes _ .

“Missiles,” Raptor said. Panic seeped into his voice. “The big bird is launching missiles.”

_ “I’ve got visual,” _ Glass said.  _ “It looks like it’s crewed, which isn’t typical of a Partholon-class. There’s a crew cabin in the front, centered, and topside. I saw a name. ‘SCS _ Sky Burner _.’ That must be its name.” _

A dozen new radar contacts appeared on Raptor’s six o’clock, seemingly spawning directly from the  _ Sky Burner’s _ blip. A pair of Wombats buzzed by him. Two more locked on to him. “They launched drones!” he cried. This was getting out of hand. “All planes — break contact and exfiltrate from the AO,” he said.

They formed up on him, fleeing in a loose formation, and burned half a ton of fuel through afterburners on their way out of the region. The Wombats pursued, launching missiles and downing another pair of squadrons. The rest managed to evade, but only barely.

Suddenly, Raptor heard a familiar voice.

_ “This is AWACS Sky Holder. Razor Squadron, Condor Squadron, Harpy Squadron, how copy?” _

“Good copy, this is SEAD Mission Actual,” Raptor said. “I have tactical command of the operation, but it’s scrubbed. Enemy’s deployed a Partholon-class aerial arsenal ship and maintains air superiority. We’ve suffered heavy losses and are egressing north towards friendly airspace. I repeat, SEAD mission is scrubbed. Wave off the invasion force.”

_ “Sky Holder copies all.” _ AWACS answered.  _ “Damn it. I bring good news, though. Leda Station’s radar array has been taken out. They’re having better luck in the north pole. Get home safe, boys.” _

As soon as they were out of the city’s airspace, the missile locks stopped. The Wombats waved off and returned to their carrier.

Archer called the ball on approach to the  _ Valley Forge _ . He wondered to himself, silently, where the enemy got their hands on one of  _ those _ .

——

**1955 Hours, 10 April 2577 (Military Calendar)**

**Grid 26-55, Far Northern Theater, Sedra**

**One hour ago**

Iyanna joined a platoon of Helljumpers using a Scorpion as cover only three hundred meters from the gate, and fifty meters from the outer trench line. They used smoke grenades to cover most of their assault from anti-tank guns in the trenches, and by now the tanks had destroyed most of the watchtowers with heavy weapons.

As the armored, tank-like Marine shock troops crested the trench, they gunned down S3 riflemen through the smoke. Laser tracers dissipated in the smoke. Lower power shots struck Marines, burning their armor but momentarily sparing them from instant deaths. A few shots splashed Iyanna’s energy shields, depleting it to half charge. That was when they lobbed frags into the trench line.

Thunderous explosions went off dangerously close to them, one after another, until the Marines counted the number that they’d thrown and jumped into the trench, clearing it out. It took them ten minutes; Iyanna laid prone at the crest of the trench, using her M395 to take potshots at the next trench line to suppress them with a machine gunner.

A few Scorpions rolled over the trenches, further down to the left. Marines entered and cleared them out. Orders were tossed around to check everyone’s targets. Eventually, Locke and Hayden caught up to Iyanna and dropped into the trench behind her.

Locke scavenged a grenade launcher from one of the enemies. It was a magazine-fed MGL with a large electronics suite mounted to its optic, including what looked like a characteristically human laser rangefinder. “How do you figure that works?” Iyanna asked.

“It’s airburst,” Locke said. “It has to be. You lock on to a certain distance, aim up a little, and voila.” He tried it out, fiddling with the digital scope’s controls and pointing it down towards the second trench line. “Ninety-seven meters, low.” He flipped a knob and launched two shells downrange.

A pair of explosions detonated a meter and a half above the trench line, blasting it with a visible pressure wave and fragmenting shrapnel and debris into their enemies. “Hell yeah!” Hayden shouted. “Good shot!”

Locke began launching more shells, inspiring other Marines and Helljumpers to get the same ideas and overwhelm the S3 garrison with their own firepower. Within minutes, the second trench line belonged to Blackbird’s assault force. The third and final, however, was all that stood between them and the main gate.

_ “Keep going,” _ Hamilton ordered. His voice was made of steel.  _ “Use the tanks as cover. Push forward.” _

_ “The third trench line is empty!” _ called the leader of one of the Recon Marine groups, Hawkeye.  _ “They’ve fallen back.” _

Something was wrong. Iyanna felt it in her gut. The soldiers were fighting no less ferociously, although the gunfire had inexplicably stopped focusing around the center of the gate. She looked around. The reinforced walls around the gate were empty.

“Nova,” Iyanna said carefully, “we’ve got a probl—”

A dozen land mines launched high into the air, more than a hundred feet — and erupted. Hundreds of blazing flares streaked down, trailing bright white clouds in their midst.

_ “Willie Pete! Find cover!” _ Locke shouted.

Following the flares’ descent, smoke covered the entire field. The tanks were covered with charred, carbonized blast marks. Infantry scattered, seeking what little refuge they could underneath tanks lodged on top of trenches, in the snow — which didn’t help — and covering their exposed skin with their rifles. It burned through their uniforms and flesh, producing agonizing screams all around.

Marines and Helljumpers limped around aimlessly, smoke rising from burn wounds that resembled plasma marks in their chests. Most of them dropped after walking in circles. One reached out for something that wasn’t there before collapsing. Iyanna couldn’t be less grateful for her armor, which protected her from the white phosphorus. Among the hundreds in the assault force, only two dozen Marines were lucky enough to survive. Spartans stood tall over them, their energy shields barely fazed by the flares, most of which bounced right off of them.

Iyanna had seen enough. It was time to end this. She cloaked and looked for Locke and Hayden, hoping they were still alive. To her surprise, they were — they were crouched, back-to-back, in what seemed like an air pocket between smoke plumes. The two Marines covered each other, watching the smoke carefully and taking caution not to breathe any of it in. She uncloaked next to Locke, startling him.

“Give me your IR strobes,” she said. “I have an idea.”

He immediately handed them to her, along with his flare gun. “Take it,” he said. “Use your active camo and finish this!” He knew exactly what she was thinking. Hayden handed over his, as well.

Iyanna nodded, reactivated her active camouflage, and made her move. She crossed through the gate just as a pair of enemy APCs rolled towards what remained of the assault force, and made her way towards the masts.

The tallest spire was in the center of the array. Outside of it was a large radar dome. Wide, tubular wires seemed to hook up the electronics suite to the mast. Those had to be her two targets. She checked her active camouflage. She had about a minute and a half of cloaking. Gunfire erupted from the walls, closing off the front gate and making a second kill box to clear out what remained of the Marines.

She quickly armed the IR strobe, dropping it on the ground outside the radar building. Then she moved to the mast, dropping the other one. S3 infantry sprinted right past her without a clue.

“Hold it,” a voice called from behind her. She held her arms up, turning to find a Spartan-IV wielding a BR55, leveled right at her. A pair of black-clad operators with slick plate carriers and high-cut helmets accompanied him, outfitted with special NODs that, Iyanna imagined, allowed them to see her. Sixth generation Kaelorian active camouflage should have been able to fool even the sharpest thermal imaging, she thought. Apparently this was no longer the case.

The Spartan ordered her to hold her arms higher. Instead, she swatted the barrel down. It discharged a burst next to her. The operators fanned out on both sides, racking their MA5s, but struggled to get a clear shot as she closed in on the Spartan and drew her energy blade gauntlet. The Spartan jumped back, deflecting the blade with his shields and kicking her over.

Iyanna landed on her back. She quickly unlatched the flare gun from her chest rig and shot it straight into the air, illuminating the entire base in a verdant hue. The trio opposite to her halted, staring up at the flare, and she took the opportunity to break into a full sprint in the other direction, back towards the gate. As her active camouflage unit failed, she drew fire from the three at the radar dish and from S3 troops. Lances of chemical laser fire licked her shields as she weaved through enemy fire, breaking back into the smoke cloud and disappearing into a trench. Her legs screamed from exhaustion. The muscles twisted, and she hoped she hadn’t pulled any in the mad dash.

_ “You got it?” _ Locke asked, having spotted her little stunt and the blazing green flare in the sky.

“Affirmative,” Iyanna said. “Airstrike incoming. I hope.”

Sure enough, after two long minutes, a trail of missiles streaked towards the base from bearing 189 — almost directly south. They split into more contrails, and more, until they struck the base not five hundred meters in front of them. Clusters of explosives detonated all over the radar array, wrecking the electronics, the mast, and its support cables. They snapped, producing deafening twangs as the hundreds-meter-tall mast swung and toppled over into a few more of the base’s facilities on the left.

The gunfire summarily died down. A voice broke through to the CMD channel.

_ “Juggernaut to all units. Long-range coms are back online. Confirm.” _

After a second’s pause, a dozen voices flooded the channel. Forward air controllers began marking targets. Broadswords and Longswords descended below the cloud layer, entering the airspace, and made gun runs and dropped guided bomb units. Marines cheered and screamed between danger-close fire missions and air strikes.

The battle was over within minutes. A white flag was spotted over Leda Station’s headquarters, and Commandant Watson broadcasted on an open channel his base and forces’s unconditional surrender. Eventually, though, after sweeping the base and processing the prisoners of war, they never found the Spartan Iyanna reported shortly after the ground reinforcements caught up with the first wave led by Hamilton.

When the dust and ice settled, and the survivors of the battle were being tended to, and the dead were counted, Iyanna wondered to herself… was the cost too great?


	9. The Boom Operator

**1700 Hours, 13 April 2577 (Military Calendar)**

**Aboard UNSC** **_Shrine of Atago_ ** **, orbit of Sedra, Orrichon star system**

**UNSC Peacekeeping Operation “Blackout”: resupply mission**

A hundred kilometers above the eye of a superstorm, the supply ship  _ Zumwalt _ docked with the  _ Shrine of Atago _ , joining an extended hangar with the cruiser’s starboard Hangar 7. They matched, pressurized to each other, and released the energy shielding that contained atmospheres. Catwalks and ramps extended both ways, meeting and allowing crewmen and forklifts hauling empty and collapsed Hesco barriers and prefab structure materials to pass through.

Northgate was routed to Hangar 6, gently docking his Strike Pelican on Pad 1L and spooling down the engine. As the Pelican demagnetized from Pad 1L after landing and was guided in the zero-gravity hangar to the ceiling aircraft racks, he wiped a microfiber cloth along the lens of his SAFE-P helmet and debriefed the deck chief. His wizzo was already long gone, halfway down the hall connecting Hangar 6 with his barracks.

The deck chief nodded, idly spinning his pen in zero-G as he gave Northgate’s report some thought. It fluttered like a butterfly, suspended in place, bound by centrifugal force instead of gravity. “Glad to hear our spot-mods worked out fine,” he said. “Although it’s definitely not something that’ll perform for more than five sorties.”

“Jeez,” Northgate said, scratching the back of his neck. “That bad?”

“Yeah,” the chief said. “We literally stick-welded Longsword hardpoints onto it. What’d you expect?”

“A better job spot-modding my girl, maybe,” Northgate said with a chuckle. “Whatever, it worked, right?”

“Now you’re thinking like one of us,” the chief said and gave Northgate a playful punch on the shoulder. “All right, that’s all I’ve got for ya.” They went separate ways, walking awkwardly with magnetized boots against the hangar floor.

His curiosity drove him to Block 7, crossing the ONI offices and AAG barracks, quarters, workshop, and rec room to get through the armory locks and final airlocks to Hangar 7, which was wide open and bustling with activity. Crewmen walked in and out of the busy hangar, merged with the  _ Zumwalt _ ’s loading station, brushing Northgate and making him feel cramped and claustrophobic even in a space as open as a hangar.

Northgate brushed past a squad of Marines and a dozen deck hands guiding  matériel carts. He couldn’t help but stake them out. He didn’t recognize a single face; most of them were from the  _ Zumwalt _ , anyway, so they’d have to be total strangers. But he knew what he was looking for. There was a small chance that the girl who operated one of the booms of the supply ship was, indeed, present. Maybe she was — maybe she was there, with nothing to do, on the off-chance that he’d find her. Maybe she was waiting.

Northgate leaned on a bulkhead and hoped his head didn’t inflate too wide with such bashful thoughts of self-importance. It was just a hope. He’d spend his libos here and, if she didn’t turn up, too bad — he had a little work to do, anyway.

What would he say if someone approached him and asked what a pilot was doing in a hangar docked with a supply ship? What would he do if they told him to get lost? He purged those doubts as he tapped the back of his head against the bulkhead, frowning to himself. Maybe there wasn’t a point, after all.

He relaxed the muscles in his face, thought about it some more, and frowned again.

“Hey, Northgate!” a voice called from his left.

Warrant Officer Archer came up to him, still wearing his SAFE-B flight suit, clipboard tucked under his shoulder. He had a spring in his boot.

“Hey,” Northgate said, shaking Archer’s hand. “What are you doing down here?”

“My Super Broadsword’s docked in this hangar. I came down to check with the chief about a few things.”

Northgate nodded. “I see,” he said. He smiled. “Glad to see you’re up and running,”

“I’m just glad my squad made it back,” Archer said; he looked glib. “We lost a few good pilots over Sedra City.”

Northgate crossed his arms as a long tone rang throughout the hangar and a voice gave orders.

He swore. “I heard it didn’t go well,” he said.

“It was a fuckin’ disaster,” Archer said. “They’ve got an Arsenal Ship.”

“No way,” Northgate said. “Like, one of the Anian ones?”

“Partholon-class,” Archer huffed. “It’s manned, and it’s got a few new types of APS up its sleeve, but it’s definitely a Partholon chassis.”

Northgate whistled. “That’s… not going to be easy,” he said. He closed his eyes and rested his head back on the bulkhead. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

Archer thumped his shoulder. “Stay frosty, cowboy.”

“Yeah, you, too,” Northgate said, “six shooter.” When he opened his eyes, Archer was gone. Instead, he met the eyes of a young woman in UNSC Air Force fatigues. She was a technical sergeant with inquisitive look burning through eyes as brown as her pixie-cut hair.

“Hey, flyboy,” she said with a confident smile.

Northgate smiled. “Hey, Eastside,” he said. “What brings you down here?”

“The same thing that brought you here, maybe?”

“Curiosity?” Northgate probed. He guarded his ego tightly with his words.

She shrugged. “Perhaps,” she said. “Maybe I came down here on the off chance that I’d find you, and you’d buy me dinner.”

“Perish the thought,” Northgate teased. “Maybe you just had something to do.”

“Did you?”

Northgate shrugged. “I checked up on my buddy down here,” he said and shrugged.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Anything else?”

“I think I should know your name before I give up an embarrassing confession,” Northgate said.

She giggled. “It’s Manfield,” she said.

“Well, I can see that,” Northgate said. “In that case, my name’s Northgate.”

She pursed her lips playfully. “Is your first name John?”

“No.”

“Is it Shaw?” she pressed.

“ _ No _ ,” Northgate said. “It’s—”

She held up a finger, pressing it against his lips, and shushed him. “Let me guess,” she teased. “And you can guess mine.”

Northgate stuck his hands in his pockets. “Okay… Stacy?”

“Ew, no.”

“Jane?” Northgate asked. She shook her head. He shrugged.

“You’re terrible at this,” she said.

“No better than you,” Northgate said with a chuckle. “You look like a Stacy.”

She grinned. “I do not,” she huffed.

“Sure you do,” Northgate said. “Actually… do  _ I _ look like a John?”

She nodded.

He shrugged and pushed himself off the wall. “Well, are you just going to stay here and talk?”

“Not if you aren’t,” Manfield said. They walked awkwardly in the half-gravity engaged in the hangar to streamline the transfer of  matériel between the  _ Zumwalt _ and the  _ Atago _ .

When they passed Block 7 and made it to the mess hall, they sat down at a table. “I’m not really hungry,” he said, and she agreed. Some heads were turned to the sight of an Air Force uniform aboard a predominantly Navy-crewed ship, but Northgate shrugged off their gazes.

“So, this is Navy life?” she asked. “It’s… cool.”

“I thought so about ten years ago, when I first got here,” Northgate said. “My opinion hasn’t really changed since — I’ve just gotten used to it.”

“Ten years,” she said with a whistle. “You fought in the war?”

“All the way to Praeziak,” Northgate said.

“You say that like it’s no big deal.”

“It is,” Northgate said. “It is no big deal. Everyone played a part. Mine just happened to be a little freakier, and covered in black ink. What about you?”

“Me?” she said. “No, I’ve been on the supply ship for six years. It’s been a… mostly quiet tour.”

“I can imagine,” Northgate said. “You excited to see some action?”

She smiled. “Not particularly,” she said. “The work is just harder now. Plus, it’s not like I’ll see much. I think you’ve already seen more than I will.”

Northgate changed the subject. “Tell me something about—”

“Are you happy?” she interjected.

Northgate sat back, his eyes wide. “What?”

She repeated the question, studying his reaction.

Northgate paused, thinking about it. “Yeah,” he said, smiling. “I think I am. The sky’s where I belong — and I fly with the best crew in the galaxy.” He wasn’t sure if he was being honest.

“Good.”

“Are you?”

She shrugged. “Who can say for sure?” she said.

“What kind of an answer is that?” Northgate asked.

“It’s more honest than yours,” she huffed. “Isn’t it?”

“I dunno,” Northgate said. “I was thinking off the top of my head.”

Her eyes narrowed somewhat. “And what about from the bottom of your heart?” she asked.

“The bottom of my heart…” Northgate said, and leaned on his palm. In truth, perhaps it was harder to tell if Northgate was happy. He grew up on Venezia, a colony that was more like a city-state, long-plagued with crime and terrorism. His life was rough; it was one bar fight to another, one gang war to another, and one missed opportunity to the next. Life in the Navy — through hell, high water, and war — was objectively better. “Say, you’re from Venezia. Don’t you think it’s... better, here?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, it is. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy.”

“Have you seen a lot of wars?” Northgate asked.

“No,” she said. “Not one.”

He hesitated, unsure of what to say. “I see,” he said.

“You think that’s why I should be happy.”

“No,” Northgate said, recoiling back slightly. “No, not at all. I’m sure you’ve lost people too.”

She nodded, allowing a pained smile to creep up her jaw. “I have,” she said. “We all have.”

“I didn’t fight in the Seven Weeks War,” Northgate said, “but I lost my brother in it.”

“What did he do?” Manfield asked.

“He was in Hawk squadron, 117th Tactical Fighter Wing,” Northgate said.

“Air Force?” Manfield said. “But the 117th is a drone fleet.”

“Yeah,” Northgate said. “His station was bombed. Orbital strike.”

“Yikes,” Manfield said. She crossed her arms. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Northgate smiled. “Thanks,” he said.

“What are you thanking me for?”

“When someone offers you condolences,” Northgate said, “you thank them. That’s what my mom taught me.”

Manfield took a second to consider it, and again, she smiled.

——

“There are three strategically important sites in the Thanatos Military Sector,” Rear Admiral Hayes said, taking his hands off the podium. An array of field officers nodded, having studied the updated maps an hour prior to the meeting. Captain Braxton leaned forward, flipping the pen in his right hand. He wasn’t sure why Hamilton had invited him to this meeting, and a few officers had turned their heads to see a captain join the fold, but Hayes allowed it.

A strategic map of the north pole of Sedra was displayed on the briefing screen. Battle lines were drawn all over it — Braxton recognized a few of them as movements already carried out, but some were new. They were plans for future operations. There was Leda Station, which was now the primary forward operating base, and the old staging area the Recon Marines had set up. To the north was an airfield labeled “Titan,” and a central command center thirty kilometers east called “Argus.”

“The second target I’ve laid out for Task Force Blackbird is Titan, the massive aerodrome that contains the far northern airspace,” Hayes said. “It won’t be an easy fight. They have control over most of the surrounding region in the form of resupply stations and firebases with overlapping fields of support.

“Consequently, I’ve routed Task Force Blackbird’s ground forces to attack from three routes. We’re still recovering from our losses from Leda, so you’ll be stretched a little thin. Hamilton, those are your forces that will be taking the spearhead of this operation. We’re also reinforcing your group with ‘Bison’ from the 110th Marines and ‘Gunfighter’ from the 455th ODSTs. ‘Gunfighter’ will be rockside in sixteen hours. ‘Bison’ is going to be there in twenty-six hours. You will likely have to deploy your men without them.”

Hamilton rolled his shoulders. Braxton took notes.

“I’ll forward you the STARS data coming in later. Study the maps and tactical data as much as you can; you don’t have much time. Are there any questions?”

Colonel McCall, an Army stiff two chairs to Braxton’s left, raised his hand. “I mean no disrespect to him, but why is it that a Major from the Marine Corps was appointed to be the commander of all ground forces? Does no one else in his battalion or division with sufficient experience outrank him?”

For a heartbeat, a fire burned in Braxton’s chest. He understood the concern, but it annoyed him. His hand tightened around his pen and he stiffened his posture. He willed himself not to speak; Hamilton nudged him, subtly shaking his head and passing a smile that demanded grace, not rage.

“Rest assured,” Hayes said with a confident smile, “Major Hamilton has led one of the most decorated careers in the Corps. Many of us here have not been through conflicts as early as the Praesian War, but he and his battalion has. Read his file, if you must — I hand-picked him for this operation. His tactics and strategies are sound and battle-tested; his men love him, and he commands respect from his peers.”

Major Amari, Gunfighter’s adjutant commander, spoke up next. “Are my men inserting by hot drop?”

“It depends on the timing of the operation,” Hayes said. “If all is according to plan, we won’t need to hot drop your men. If there is a delay for any reason, or if the S3 forces move unpredictably — which we can’t rule out — then we might have to use human entry vehicles and a few Albatrosses.”

Hamilton raised his hand. “During the last battle, we encountered a new type of enemy technology that appears to be a derivative from the Anian combat backscatter optics,” he said. He was reading off some notes he prepared before the briefing. “It rendered our smoke useless, even with thermal-masking properties. Do we have any more information about the specs that S3 is using, and do we have any effective countermeasures?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Hayes said. “We don’t have specs, and we don’t have an effective countermeasure. They appear to be, in function, identical to Anian backscatter scopes. There are only a few tactics we can employ against them, which were effective in both the Seven Weeks War and in the annual Resnick exercises at Falaknuma. You’ll have to ask Signal Corps on the  _ Atago _ to get you the relevant info on that. It’s in one of the ONI tech databases.”

Hamilton nodded. There were no more questions.

“I’ll keep you posted. Dismissed.” The lights came back on and Hayes and his adjutants exited the room after everyone rose. Braxton followed Hamilton out the room.

“Major,” Braxton said, “if I may.”

“What’s up?” Hamilton asked without changing his pace.

“What was the purpose of bringing me with you into that meeting? I appreciate the opportunity, but…”

Hamilton smiled. “Well,” he said, “I’ve watched you grow as an officer over the last several months. Sooner than later you’ll be in command of your own battalion. I wanted to gradually show you the ropes.”

Braxton didn’t say anything for a moment. He thought about it. It made sense — suddenly, everything made sense: the increase in paperwork, Hamilton delegating certain tactical decisions to Braxton, and frequently asking Braxton to handle situations he would normally do himself. Braxton didn’t even second-guess it; he was so accustomed to being Hamilton’s adjutant he’d only assumed it was a simple gesture of trust rather than mentorship. “I see,” he said. “I’m glad to hear that, sir.”

“You’ve come a long way,” Hamilton said. “You’re not there yet, but you will be. You’ll make a fine commander. Go get some rest.”

Braxton nodded and returned to his office, cleaning up the rest of the AARs from the other day and reviewed helmet cam footage from his men in Red Company. He pulled a slip of paper out of his lockbox and opened it, reading the excerpt he’d scribbled down years ago. It was during high school, when he studied a literature class and came across some old English texts. The poem  _ The Charge of the Light Brigade _ caught his eye. He liked to think that, ostensibly, it was what pushed him over the edge to join the Marine Corps.

It was something he turned to for inspiration.

_ Cannon to right of them, _

_ Cannon to left of them, _

_ Cannon in front of them _

_ Volleyed and thundered; _

_ Stormed at with shot and shell, _

_ Boldly they rode and well, _

_ Into the jaws of Death, _

_ Into the mouth of hell _

_ Rode the six hundred. _

In this time — in this war — though, Braxton struggled to apply meaning to it. Where’s the heroism in this operation? Where’s the desperation? There wasn’t any; they were just fighting to achieve a simple goal. Killing men as a means to an end. Losing men for little more than a political game.

He knew better than to dwell on that. War, after all, was just war — it wasn’t always just; you just had to do your part.

——

The Signal Corps branch was busy. ONI analysts typed away at their keyboards in the Block 7 signals wing, hard at work with the codebreaking process. The central algorithm was operated by two machines, with two operators. Phantom leaned over the shoulders of two ensigns, Whitley and Zary. They looked up from their desks with nothing more than a respectful “sir” and a nod. 

“Any progress?” Phantom asked.

“Yes, actually,” Whitley said. “Our codebreaking algorithm has made leaps and bounds to crack S3’s encryptions.”

“Show me what you’ve got,” Phantom said.

Whitley pulled up one of the programs. “Without getting into specifics,” he said, “the Hardcase has gotten into the enemy encryption algorithm about eighty percent.”

Lines of code ran down one of the applications on Zary’s screen. “Ninety percent,” he said.

“You mean—” Phantom started.

A completion line crawled across the bottom.

Whitley threw his hands up. “It’s done! Yes!”

Phantom drifted over to a coms desk. “Route that encryption to this station. Time to test it out.”


	10. Payback

**1300 Hours, 15 April 2577 (Military Calendar)**

**Aboard UNSC** **_Shrine of Atago_ ** **, orbit of Sedra, Orrichon star system**

**UNSC Peacekeeping Operation “Blackout”**

**Battle of Titan Airfield. 0800/15/4/2577-0100/17/4/2577**

**26°11’34”N 55°11’65”W**

**Mission: “Operation Merryweather”**

**Belligerents:**

UNSC Task Force Blackbird

Section 3 Defense Contracting Corporation, Sedra Division

**Commanders:**

Maj. J. F. Hamilton (UNSC Marine Corps), Radm. R. E. Hayes (UNSC Navy)

Field Commander A. R. Winters (S3 Northern Industro-Military Sector)

**Outcome:** UNSC victory. Following the successful attack on Leda Station, Task Force Blackbird seized control of the major airbase in the far northern region, nearly securing air superiority and creating a strategically important advantage over the war effort.

“Hot drop in one hour!” called Chief Petty Officer Ley, the crew chief for the deployment bay.

“One hour!” answered the Helljumpers.

The underbelly of the  _ Atago _ was busy with Marines prepping for the drop. Lieutenant Adler secured his MA56 into the pod last, next to the three-day pack, and took a second to adjust how his armor fit over his CBRN fatigues. The MEU didn’t have a proper resupply with any of the Home Fleet facilities before its redeployment; the entire Blackbird ground force was quickly re-equipped with CBRN equipment… in OTW-1, or Operation Trebuchet Woodland 1 — the oldest pattern still in service. It was, in effect, all they had on-hand; CBRN threats were not common with this particular outfit of troops.

The order came from Major Hamilton himself, who was present for the last battle. He didn’t want to risk another run-in with white phosphorus. Adler understood that well enough, but it was still quite inconvenient. From that point on, when they were engaged with S3, they were to be at Level C protection — and ready to transition to Level B at any time. It was fortunate that they were fighting in the north pole of Sedra; the dry air and freezing climate minimized the effects of white phosphorus burns. Although the majority of the damage sustained was still from the flares, the primary hazard was from the toxic, systemic fumes they released in their wake.

Adler checked his gear one last time. He performed a “jump test,” which involved hopping up and down on the balls of his feet repeatedly to see how much noise he produced. He heard nothing but his boots landing on the floor. He smirked; he had packed just right.

He gathered Wolverine Squad together with Dragon Squad. Master Sergeant Shu waited, hands on his waist, with his helmet clipped to his belt. The two teams made a hodgepodge of Marine Raiders and Helljumpers centered around the two officers. “Listen up,” Adler said.

“Our groups will be diverging from the main force once we’re REDCON One. We’ve been assigned to take out a small firebase to the south of the Titan Airfield.”

“Do we have any supports?” Corporal Wellesley asked.

“One CAS run will be available, and even that is going to be inconsistent. There’s a radar baffle like with Leda Station present, but smaller and less powerful. On top of that, the airspace is contested, so we’ll be pretty tight.”

“No armor?” Wellesley said.

“No armor,” Adler said. “A Spartan-IV fireteam, Bear, is accompanying us, though. We have solid intel on them  _ and _ we cracked their comms earlier this morning.”

They all exchanged looks with one another. “How far are we dropping?” Wellesley asked.

“Two klicks from the base. Hopefully we won’t be detected in the confusion.We’re packing heavy weapons; everyone cross-trained with machine guns and mortar operation is to take one with them. I want four mortars and three guns.”

They all nodded in some sort of agreement and scattered when he dismissed them.

An hour passed. By then, all of the Marines and Helljumpers were in their pods and the deployment bay was nearly empty, save for a dozen crewmen. Ley got on the channel.

_ “Drop in five minutes,” _ Ley said. A countdown read 00:00:05:00.00 on his display.  _ “Complete all pre-drop checks and read back green.” _

Adler fiddled with the control stick and cycled the engine stage primers. The electro-pneumatic feedback system picked up his inputs and answered green indicators; the automated visual thruster gimbal monitor watched his pod’s boosters spin on their axes and indicated on Adler’s HUD that they were good. He verified with the system and answered a green pre-drop check on the deployment net. A hundred other pods answered green seconds later.

It had been a long time since Adler’s Raiders participated in a drop. A spike of anxiety ran through him as the pods lifted off their housings and exited the airlocks, sealed up and ready to drop. The transparent carbon-carbon hull viewport exposed him to the icy pole of Sedra, a view that he figured cost two hundred frequent flyer miles.

He watched the timer. 00:00:00:59.09.

_ “One minute,” _ Ley called.

_ “As of this moment we are REDCON One,” _ Major Amari called over the comm. _ “We’ve done this a hundred times before, and we’ll do it a hundred more. Stick to your guts, team.” _

A wave of “oorahs” echoed the battalion-wide channel.

00:00:00:34.00.

_ “Thirty seconds,” _ Ley said.

00:00:00:05.34.

_ “Good hunting, Jarheads,” _ Ley said.

00:00:00:00.00.  _ Zero hour _ .

The display blinked red. Its buzzer screamed. A hundred and fifty pods dropped with Adler’s squad. Within seconds, the  _ Shrine of Atago _ vanished distantly above them in the swirling black.

Silence overtook Adler’s pod. It was almost like nothing was happening — no thrusters, no humming from the instruments, no radio communications, no motion inside the pod as he kept still, and no thoughts whatsoever.

The pod rattled again when it entered atmosphere; flames streaked across the bottom of the pod, burning air from sheer friction.

_ “Entering Stage One of re-entry,” _ Amari stated.  _ “Ride it out.” _

Condensation clouded the viewport. “Fogging up,” Adler said. He tightened his grip on the control stick, but realized his reflexes wouldn’t do him any favors.

“Ride it out,” Shu said. “It’ll clear in a minute. Keep your pods on autopilot until the divergence point.”

The sky above seemed to turn from a cold black to a damp purple. The wisps of fire licking the pods disappeared.

_ “Stage Two,” _ Amari said.  _ “Auto-correction algorithm starting… now.” _

Adler’s pod shuddered as its rudders came to life, steering it slightly with the rest of the formation. The icy white fog on the viewport cleared to only more dark clouds some fifty miles below. Peering over them were the rigid silhouettes of mountains — large enough to thwart Menachite Mountain or Olympus Mons. It was only after a few minutes more that they broke thirty miles. The ground was closing fast.

_ “Stage Three,” _ Amari stated.  _ “All units, deploy first-stage drogue stabs. Wolverine, Bear, Dragon: divert to secondary coordinates now.” _

Adler complied. He activated the drogue stabilizer panel, which rocked the pod as it decelerated significantly, and switched off the autopilot and turned the stick, pulling off from the main formation. Two dozen pods split away from the formation of a hundred-odd, joining him.

_ “Stage four,” _ Amari called.  _ “First-stage drogue stab separation… now.” _

The stabilizer immediately detached; the ride smoothed out at a relatively slower velocity than before it deployed. The ground was still coming up. The digital altimeter raced downwards, faster than Adler could track it. He squeezed the joystick harder reflexively. His muscles tensed up.

He could see the Titan operating base distantly below them, a few klicks north of the landing zone. It was even bigger than Leda Station. It was fully constructed like a castle that warded off evil spirits, half built into one of the mountains. There were segments that were straight up walled in, and some more open segments guarded only by fences, Hesco barriers, and prefabbed towers. There were two steel industrial facilities in the base, as well, between what looked like underground missile silos and the massive airfield, marked by runway strobes marking three parallel landing strips. Jets screamed overhead, raining down flares, missiles, and bombs. Missiles streaked from its SAM batteries. Tracers painted the air a hundred at a time. Autocannons and CIWS turrets turned the airspace strobe with red and green phosphorescent gunfire. Beyond that, there was an active ground war attacking the base’s front gates — one of three entrances — put to a stand still like an ancient trench war drawn with twentieth-century front lines and tank platoons.

_ “Stage five!” _ Amari yelled.  _ “Drogue chutes!” _

Adler yanked the switch that activated the final stage of the drop pod, three large load-bearing drogue chutes that slowed his descent to, comparatively, that of a feather gingerly floating. He sighed in relief. The coordinates brought him to a level clearing with snow covering a flat bed of permafrost. When he touched down after about ten minutes, he climbed out and knelt in the snow, catching his breath. He hadn’t realized he had spent a good thirty seconds holding it down, like he was underwater and drowning.

When he stood up, Sergeant Marigold was waiting before him with a wide grin. “Pretty wild, huh, sir?”

“Yeah,” Adler said. “It’s been a while since I did that.”

“Same here,” Marigold said. He turned to the other Raiders. “Form up! Headcount!”

“Comms check,” Adler said into his microphone as he squeezed his PTT.

A wave of comms echoed through Wolverine Squad’s channel as the Marines crawled out of the mass of individual, olive-green drogue chutes. The chutes looked like spoiled pancakes on the snow. Everyone’s status was green. The drop had sustained no casualties.

Dragon squad chimed in a moment later. Saker’s men had landed only a hundred meters off from their cluster. The Spartans in Bear Squad weren’t far either.

The sky was mostly calm. There was moderate cloud coverage, but it was relegated mostly to cirrus clouds and docile storms of ice and sleet blown idly in the wind. It was always like that in the poles. A freezing wind gave Adler’s cheeks a bad case of rope burn. He pulled his scarf up higher and covered his eyes with his ballistic goggles. “Let’s get a move on,” Adler said. “The battle’s already started.”

“Without us, huh?” Marigold said.

“You’ll get some,” Adler said. “You’ll get your share.”

“Oorah,” said Marigold.

——

The Warthog engine screamed as Hayden raced it, kicking into high gear as they crested snow dunes with the rest of the formation. An array of tanks, APCs, and troop carriers coasted across the permafrost to the enemy base in the south.

Locke peered out the open passenger seat as they passed a Grizzly. A half-dozen Marines were secured to the track plates, hitching rides on the external armor. They pumped their fists at the sight of Spartans from NG-8 in the troop transport. Nex nodded in response, but Locke pumped his fist and gave them a thumbs-up back.

_ “All victors,” _ Hamilton called,  _ “this is Blackbird Actual. Maintain dispersion at fifty kilometers per hour. Maintain staggered line formation. We’re three klicks out of the AO.” _

Locke happened to glance up and saw a flurry of white-hot darts glowing in the sky. They streaked across, arcing down towards them. “Incoming!” he shouted.

Nex reported it on the company-wide channel.

A barrage of explosions rocked the formation; they pushed through it. MLRS missiles struck the ice and permafrost in front of and between some of the vehicles, but incurred no losses yet. When the barrage ended, they heard a call on company-wide comms.

_ “Blackbird Actual to all victors: halt, halt, halt. Increase dispersion to thirty meters. Enemy has spotters in the air. Scorcher, take line formation in the front. Avenger, staggered formation in front of the transports.” _

Scorcher Company, a force of sixteen Grizzly tanks, rolled ahead as Hayden halted the transport ‘Hog with the rest of the convoy. Avenger, a platoon of air-defense Kodiaks, rolled behind Scorcher.

_ “This is Avenger Two,” _ a voice called over the channel.  _ “I have radar contact with two enemy UAVs, one kilometer altitude, orbiting the AO. Request permission to engage.” _

_ “Blackbird Actual copies,” _ Hamilton answered.  _ “Engage. Engage. All victors, weapons free.” _

_ “Avenger Two, this is One. Target the one at bearing two-two-eight. Switch to thermals and engage with Galileans.” _

_ “Roger, One, engaging with Galilean,”  _ answered one of the Avenger crews.

Two AD-Kodiaks pivoted their turrets seventy-nine degrees up, powered up their turret-mounted auxiliary M6 Grindell/Galileans, and fired. Bright red spears impaled the sky as the solid-state lasers vaporized their targets instantly: a pair of Old War-era Wombat drones.

_ “This is Avenger,” _ Avenger 1 called.  _ “Enemy UAVs engaged and destroyed. Spotters are offline.” _

_ “Incoming barrage! Five seconds!” _ one of the Marine squad leaders yelled on the battlenet.

_ “Hold position,” _ Hamilton ordered.

A hail of artillery and rocket fire kicked up the snow and permafrost a hundred meters ahead of the formation. The dust and snow settled after a few seconds, and the knot in Locke’s throat unwound itself.

The next order came immediately after.  _ “All victors, proceed. Maintain current dispersion, staggered line formation. Thirty kilometers per hour. Nova, Reaper, Cobalt: break off and commence your mission.” _

The vehicles picked up. Nex slapped the hull of the Warthog. “Hayden, that’s our cue!” she yelled.

_ “Copy,” _ Hayden said. His voice was as cool as the ice they drove on. He steered the vehicle into a formation with six others, splitting off from the main force to the right and circling around the airfield.

_ “Enemies haven’t made visual contact with us yet,” _ Nex said.

“Good,” Locke whispered under his breath. Risking detection was risking it all. He turned back, watching the battle lines converge on a full frontal assault towards Titan. It was another Leda strategy, ordered up by Hayes. This time, however, it was more conservative: either Hamilton or someone else put forward a strategy that held back until the first phase of the plan was complete.

The first phase involved three groups: two squads of Marine Raiders, and NG-8. They were to infiltrate behind enemy lines and sabotage the airfield before the bombers could launch, and destroy its air-defense network to soften them up for the Navy Air Corps.

A pair of Wombats streaked low and fast, lining up for an attack run on the base. They were summarily mowed down by the Avenger interception system as a pair of green-hot lasers pierced the sky. Close-in weapon systems intercepted their missiles, leaving the entire airfield untouched. Locke wondered where the Frost Brigade had gotten their hands on laser AD weapons, but he knew the answer was quietly lurking in orbit, tethered to an asteroid, scrying from afar.

Even kilometers away, he could hear the rumble of war. It was difficult to perceive other sounds — like his comrades’ voices — from only a few meters away. Explosions thumped with an erratic frequency. Barrages paraded to create a symphony of death.

The vehicles stopped. The soldiers dismounted.

“We’ll have to come back for them later,” Nex said.

“Roger,” Cobalt 1 said.

“Mission timers,” Nex said. They had given her tactical command of the operation.

“Synchronizing now,” Reaper 1 said. Cobalt 1 gathered his men together and they synchronized their watches as well. A wave of thumbs-ups rippled through the crowd of nearly fifty Marines.

“Sync,” Nex said, and they did. “Spread out. Reaper, you’re going in from the north, right?”

“That’s right,” Reaper 1 said. “Our target is the munitions depot in the mountains.”

She looked at Cobalt 1. “You’re west,” she said. “You’re hitting the silos.”

Cobalt 1 nodded and stepped back.

“And Nova is going after the bombers,” Nex said. “We’ve got two hours before they can refuel and rearm. Intel suggests they’re taking it slow; they think they have the upper hand. Let’s show them they’re wrong.”

A wave of quiet hooahs and hooyahs washed over the squadrons and they melted into the shadows. Locke’s HUD was the only serious indicator he had of the progress of Nova squadron. Blue indicators lit them up on a backdrop of infrared green night vision lenses. The Novas came in from the east, crossing a field of dark permafrost towards the airfield’s center runway. It was marked 09R.

“How are we gonna play this one?” Locke asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

_ “We’re gonna put Iyanna and Tiamat on that mesa to the right,” _ Nex said.  _ “They’ll have good overwatch of the whole base. They can track our progress and contact the other teams as well.” _

Tiamat’s acknowledgment light winked green twice. Iyanna’s, too. The two of them broke off from the group, switching on their active camouflage and ascending the harsh terrain.

A pair of lights flashed towards them. Locke turned and spotted a pair of AV-35B Falchions crossing the icy black sky on final approach.

“Fast movers!” Locke yelled, ducking. The others flattened and vanished into the dirt.

The spotlights washed over them. The planes landed on Runway 09R. Wheels screeched against the tarmac as they came to a short halt.

_ “I don’t think they spotted us,” _ Hayden said.  _ “We’re lucky… but we shouldn’t push it.” _

_ “Agreed,” _ Nex said.  _ “Keep moving. Stay low.” _

They crept another two hundred meters to the first fence line. Using his power armor, Mike ripped the chain-links apart enough to let his men pass through.

“Just think about it,” Locke said just before he entered, “Reaper and Cobalt are using bolt-cutters, but we’re rocking Spartans.”

Mike touched two fingers to his faceplate.

Locke remembered the first time he’d seen that. It was after the war ended on Praeziak in 2571. Soldiers had gathered in the hangar of the UNSC  _ East of Damascus _ , dismounting from dropships at the end of the largest hegemonic war in human history — one that even thwarted the Covenant War in scale. He saw Kygro and Nex exchange this gesture.

A few days later, he asked Katrina about it.

“Oh, that?” she said. “Well, you know how you can’t see faces through a visor?”

“Sure,” Locke said. “Yeah…”

“It’s how we smile.”

——

Cold silhouettes of lightly armored infantry fighting vehicles lined a half-crescent perimeter of the firebase, surrounding an outdoor motorpool that flaunted two main battle tanks. Six full-size barracks stood around the radar mast and supported two full companies of logistics and mechanized infantry. It was well-lit, but it turned ablaze every time the rocket trucks fired. Twelve at a time, vibrant orange glow sticks streaked high, leaving pillars of smoke as black as the sky. They would arc back down only miles away, blasting away at the Blackbird forces at the gates of Titan.

Adler lowered his laser designator, removing his right eye from the eyepiece. His jaw slacked. He couldn’t believe it.

“What’s up?” Marigold asked as he flattened himself on the cliff’s edge.

“Take a look,” Adler said, handing it over. “The enemy’s force concentration is twice what our intel predicted.”

Marigold scoffed when he saw it. “No, that’s like… three times. I thought this was a firebase.”

“It is,” Adler said. “But it’s tactically very important. Without the constant fire support, they’ll lose their edge.”

“You think they reinforced this line anticipating an attack?” Marigold asked.

“It’s possible,” Adler said. “Or maybe the STARS imaging was faulty. Picked up fewer signatures than it should have.”

Marigold rose to a kneel. “What’s the plan? It’s your call.”

Adler thought for a moment. “No,” he finally said. “It’s not.”

“Sir?”

“We’re not backing down,” Adler said. “If we don’t get Hamilton this win, he won’t even be able to retreat from the gorge. We’ll lose everything.”

Marigold nodded. “So what’s the plan? Bear packed heavy weapons, but—”

“Which ones?”

“A couple Spanker Block Twos, an SRS-99, and a couple SAWs,” Marigold recalled.

“Good,” Adler said, turning back towards Marigold. He laid in the snow, folding his arm with the tactical map behind him. “And Dragon Squad? Remind me.”

“Dragon’s got a GPMG and a grenade launcher.”

This would bode well for Adler. He had ordered the Raiders in Wolverine to specialize for a ‘weapons squad configuration,’ which meant mortars. They had two medium-range mortars, and each team member carried three shells extra on their person: one HE-DP, one smoke, and… 

“You still have your Willie Pete? I requisitioned them right before this mission,” Adler asked. Marigold nodded. Adler’s cracked lip curled into a dry grin. “How do you feel about getting a little payback?”

Marigold seemed to reflexively clutch the gas mask secured to his rig. “You don’t mean…” he began with, but after some contemplation, “well, it would certainly do the trick.”

“I don’t see any patrols,” Adler said. “If we’re gonna do this, we should do it now.”

Marigold agreed and gathered the Marines around.

“Here’s how we’re playing it,” Adler said. He stood behind the ridge, out of the enemy’s line of sight. “Wellesley, Rothfield, Tran, Montag: set up your mortars up top here, as far back and as safe as you can. Bear Squad, leave your sniper and spotter up here Set up your Spanker Block Twos in their vicinity, as well. Top attack profile only. Make sure they can communicate with the spotters if they have PEQ-165s. Dragon Squad, your marksmen are staying, too. Riflemen, auto-riflemen, grenadiers, sappers, breachers: we’re going down there.

“We’re going to prioritize enemy vehicles and weapon emplacements. First stage of the operation will involve shelling. Forty-mike-mike cluster HE, four times, concentrated on the artillery vehicles and radar baffles; second stage, smoke, two times, on the perimeter; third stage, Willie Petes, five times, on the infantry once they stop scrambling and settle in; fourth stage, more smokes. We’ll move in from there.”

One of the Spartans from Bear Squad raised a hand. “What about those tanks?”

“Use the SRS99s to disable armor. Two rounds to the engine block each, one to the turret. Prioritize the ones that start up first. Designated marksmen: do not prioritize machine gunners. Take out crewmen as they try to board IFVs. ATGMs will target Scorpions. We can’t risk them being on the field, manned or unmanned.”

“That reduces the number of variables,” Petty Officer Stuy, one of the Spartans, said. “Smart.”

“Not necessarily,” Adler said. “It’ll create new variables. For one, they will probably think we’re a much more sizeable force than we really are — it can be a good thing or a bad thing for us. But their actions will be fairly unpredictable once they shit their pants.”

_ It’s not smart, _ Adler thought,  _ it’s desperate. _

“Any questions?” Adler asked.

Lance Corporal Hughes changed his stance, hoisting his MA5K against his shoulder. “What about that radar baffle?”

“You’re coming down there with me, right? You’ve got the C7.”

“Yes, sir,” Hughes said.

“Use it wisely.”

“Oorah,” came the reply.

“Oorah,” Adler said. Two dozen Marines and a half-dozen Spartans replied with  _ oorahs _ and  _ hooahs _ . “Gas masks on and descend!” He affixed his gas mask, switched on his SCBA, and breathed in the new mixture of air alien to the crisp arctic climate. As the other Marines deployed their mountaineering kits to the cliffside, testing it for safety, he sealed up his chem suit. Once they descended to the bottom of the cliffs, where it was only a short but low and meticulous snow trudge to get into visual range of the firebase, the mission was almost ready to begin.

Adler crouched in a mound of snow, watching the base through his PEQ-165. “Mortars, open fire. Stage one,” he said into his comm. His voice reverberated in the gas mask, giving him a sensation he wasn’t used to.

Four acknowledgment lights winked green; four muffled thumps racked the air behind him. Mortar shells whistled in the sky as they came back down, split into micro-munitions, and splattered the targets Adler lased with explosions. Two smoke shells burst above the firebase’s south approach, between Adler’s men and the site. He threw a smoke grenade straight ahead, and ordered the others to follow suit.

The entire field was covered in smoke by the end of the minute. He got up, gripping his MA56 by the carryhandle, and sprinted. “Go, go!” he shouted.

Raiders and Helljumpers followed closely behind. A pair of Spartans quickly took the lead.

Merriweather hailed Adler.  _ “I’m getting a priority transmission from the Atago,” _ he said.  _ “It’s Phantom.” _

“Patch it to me,” Adler said between huffs.

_ “Wolverine Actual, report mission status,”  _ was the next thing he heard after a burst of static.

“Operation’s just started,” Adler said. “We’re a little busy right now, so whatever you need, please be quick.”

_ “Roger,” _ Phantom said.  _ “Be advised, I’m patching enemy encryptions to you right now. You’ll be able to hear their chatter.” _

_ Good timing _ . “Oorah,” Adler said under his breath. He opened his comm. “Roger, thanks.”

_ “Best of luck,” _ Phantom said.  _ “Atago out.” _

His helmet comms suite automatically decrypted the enemy channel and patched itself in.

_ “Falcon, what’s going on? Are we under attack?” _

_ “This is Falcon. No current updates—” _

A wave of static flooded the comm as three white phosphorus shells exploded simultaneously over the base, filling the base with white contrails and flares that sizzled through everything they touched.

_ Payback _ .

At the periphery of the smoke, almost a dozen men were frozen in their tracks, unsure of what to do. Some tried to flee. Others turned on their heels and frantically waved their rifles around.

Adler planted his boots firmly down, tilted his MA56 to get the right sight picture with his gas mask, and yelled, “Weapons free!”

A line of Marine Raiders, Helljumpers, and Spartans mowed down the mercenary squad in disarray as their silhouettes appeared from the fog. They broke into the toxic vapors and took cover behind wrecked buildings. A pair of ATGMs soared high overhead, spiking downward and impaling the Scorpions somewhere in the base. Bright orange fireballs rose from the center of the firebase.

_ “Oh my God, we’re under attack! All squads, engage south!” _

_ “We kicked the hornet’s nest,” _ Marigold said as he pied the corner of a cargo container. He whipped open its door, full of electronics and supplies, and cleared it in seconds. Adler caught up to him and motioned to help clear a few buildings.

The first building, a prefabbed cargo HQ, was empty. Four Raiders fortified it for the time being, reaching the roof and setting up SAWs.

Adler slapped open one of the ballistic panels and scanned with his eyes out. Two men in a neighboring building peeked out of their cover; he nailed them with two quick bursts before ducking down.

He left the building from the south entrance and pushed to the containers Marigold cleared. “Don’t lose the momentum,” Adler said. “Keep moving in. Throw smokes. Use flashbangs in the buildings.”

A wave of acknowledgment lights blinked green. He peeked out and saw one of the GPMGs on the Hesco barricades in the north side had already been repurposed to suppress the SAWs on the prefabbed building they’d taken.

“Goren,” Adler said, cutting through callouts and chatter on the squad comms.

_ “Yeah!” _ Private First Class Goren responded with a strained voice.

“You good?”

_ “Yeah, I’m good. What’s up?” _ came the reply.

“Get up here to the containers.”

The grenadier bolted out from the building and low-sprinted into a slide to Adler’s feet. High-caliber rounds kicked up the permafrost behind his heels. He scrambled behind the crate as a pair of lasers splashed and warped the metal. “Set!” Goren yelled.

Adler peeked his PEQ-165 around the edge of cover, flipping on the laser rangefinder, and memorized its stats before ducking back. “Machine gun,” he huffed, gesturing to Goren’s underbarrel 40mm tube. “Seventy-five meters, bearing zero-one-niner. Wind fifteen knots east-north-east.”

“Right on,” Goren said. “Seventy-five, zero-one-niner, fifteen knots east-north-east.” He set his sights and crept up, taking Adler’s place, before peeking and sticking his rifle out. A loud thump erupted as the launcher expelled a fistful of smoke and the 40mm shell. He quickly reloaded as Adler peeked out to watch.

The shell landed right on its mark, blowing up the GPMG and its operator.

“Good hit!” Adler yelled.

Goren yelped in excitement before standing up and peeking again, firing a burst over Adler’s shoulder.

One of the Bear Spartans relocated his SAW, pushing forward with the Helljumpers. Saker crossed to the west, clearing out another sector with Dragon Squad.

_ “Falcon to Stinger. Do you copy?” _

Adler listened in.

_ “What is it?” _

_ “We’re under attack,” _ the base commander yelled.  _ “Enemy force is almost thirty percent larger than ours. They used white phosphorus. It’s—” _ the call was interrupted by static.

_ “Hold your ground,” _ Stinger replied.  _ “Winters’ forces are stretched too thin.” _

_ “Stinger, negative!” _ the base commander pleaded.  _ “We can’t hold it any longer! They have Spartans! Send reinforcements!” _

There was a pause.  _ “Acknowledged,” _ Stinger said.  _ “We’ll be there soon. Out.” _

Within a minute, the majority of gunfire slowed to a halt.

The gas produced by the white phosphorus began to fill the air so densely that Adler couldn’t see through it. He rounded up several Marines to his position, ordering them to carefully sweep it. A line of infantry sealed up in Level B protection crossed what remained of the base.

A ghostly, staggered figure appeared only as a silhouette through the fog to Adler. It was too dark to make out, but he noticed the figure’s hands were at her side. She was unarmed, hobbling towards him. When she came a few feet closer, he pointed his rifle at her, and she drew a combat knife.

Adler knew to fire, but his instincts stopped him. She swiped lazily, barely even trying, while cringing silently. As she got closer, the glow from the fires illuminated her. One hand was clenched around her neck. Foam came out of her mouth, and she almost fell on Adler, attempting to stab him through the neck; he stopped her, grappling her wrist with his left hand, and she dropped the knife almost effortlessly. She held him with a death grip as she collapsed to her knees, wheezing quietly. The soldier appeared uninjured: the damage was internal, from the white phosphorus fumes inhaled. Her lungs were gargling fluid. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her mouth was stained yellow, as though she suffered from chlorine poisoning.

She was dead in the snow after a minute of seizure.

A few solitary gunshots rang out in the distance.

_ “Oh, Jesus,” _ Marigold said.  _ “Just execute them. There’s nothing we can do.” _

_ “Did we do this?” _ Goren asked.  _ “My God, did we do this?” _

“I did it,” Adler barked through grit teeth. “I gave the order. Keep moving.”

When they reached the radar station, Adler, Marigold, Goren, Hughes, and Stuy cleared it out. The building was empty; everyone had already evacuated and, presumably, suffocated or burned in the gas.

“Hughes,” Adler said. “Get started.”

Hughes nodded and nearly layered the electronics suite at the bottom of the radar station with C7 foaming explosives. The others watched every sector they could.

_ “Priority message on main freq,” _ Phantom called. It was the company-wide channel, which Hamilton was using to direct forces.  _ “Be advised: new radar contact appearing on scopes, bearing two-three-niner from the reference point. They used the mountains as cover.” _

That was the same direction the Marines had come in from. Adler turned that way and hailed the support gunners on the ridge. “Come in,” he said. “Support teams, SITREP.”

_ “We’re good,” _ Montag said.  _ “But we’ve got six bogeys coming in. They’re helos. Wait, incoming!—” _ all he heard was static afterward. A wave of red status lights washed over Adler’s roster. Nine vitals instantly flatlined.

Adler ran out of the radar station, lowering his weapon as he saw in the distance the position with his Marines, ODSTs, and Spartans. Fire and burnt permafrost rose from the cliffs, clinging to smokey contrails. Six matte black EV-44 Nightingales armed with 20mm rotary guns and door-mounted grenade launchers roared over, buzzing what remained of his men at nearly four hundred kilometers per hour, close enough to disperse the smoke with their rotor blades and catch dirt in their air intakes. They were headed straight for the firebase.

——

A squad of mercenaries marched right past Cobalt Team without noticing. Shu clutched his suppressed M7 a little tighter. When they were gone, he motioned his men to fan out into two-man teams across the FOB’s staging area. They clung to quonset huts, keeping in the darkness, silently pattering in the snow, and avoiding contours of halogen lamps like the plague.

_ “Preparing Stauros One for launch. Begin fueling.” _ the loudspeaker boomed.

“What’s that?” Lance Corporal Reyes asked.

Shu shushed him, peeking from the corner of a motor pool structure. An alarm buzzed as the ground a couple hundred meters away split open, revealing a massive silo door that slid apart. Pillars of steam rose and sailed out from the missile silo.

_ “Stauros One launches in T-minus ten minutes,” _ the loudspeaker boomed.  _ “All personnel in Launch Bay Two, enter designated sonic bunkers. Maintain minimum safe distance from launch site at all times.” _

“What? A ballistic missile?” Reyes said.

“I think so,” Shu said. He probed his comm. “Cobalt Team, this is Actual. Change of plans. We’re going to stop the launch sequence.”

His ballistic HUD glasses winked green lights across the team’s status board.

“Move in,” he said. “Don’t get spotted. We’ll clean out the tunnels and plant charges on the missile.”

The explosive specialist, Whitehall, spoke up.  _ “Which charges are we using?” _

“Plant C12 on the fuselage of the missile, where the fuel reserves are,” Shu answered.

_ “Affirm, but where are the fuel reserves?” _

“You’ll know when you see it,” Shu said.

_ “... Copy.” _

Shu and Reyes crossed a track path cutting through the snow to an opposing quonset hut. They kept to the shadows, darting in and out of light only when they had to and never for more than a second. Near the blast zone was a reinforced concrete entrance to the tunnels surrounding the missile site. It was guarded by four riflemen.

“Reyes and I are up at one of the entrances,” Shu whispered. “We need a diversion.”

Whitehall and Morgan crept up behind them. “On your backs,” Morgan whispered. Shu could barely hear her voice over the commotion. A pair of CIWS guns opened fire again, streaming red-hot tracers into the sky. Pulse lasers began another anti-air barrage, momentarily lighting up the night.

He received a transmission from Reaper 1.  _ “Cobalt, update status.” _

“This is Cobalt,” Shu said, swearing under his breath. “We’ve got a problem. Frost Brigade is planning to launch a ballistic missile. Target is probably the  _ Atago _ , since she’s still in the danger zone.”

_ “How much time do we have?” _

“Ten minutes,” Shu said. “Proceed with the mission as planned. Leave it to us. Out.”

_ “One diversion, coming right up,” _ Black said. Gunfire erupted to their left, drawing the attention of nearly all the troopers in the area.

Shu, Morgan, Whitehall, and Reyes opened fire, dropping the guards at the tunnel entrance with two shots to the body each. Suppressed patters barely reverberated over the gunfire from the rest of his team. They crossed to the entrance and entered in single file, with Morgan taking point, and Shu right behind her. Shu had Whitehall and Reyes pull security until they had cleared the first two rooms.

Before the staff could seal the doors shut, Morgan put two rounds right into two officers each and cleared the room. Shu cleared the right side and put down one more, a trooper startled to see they’d breached the bunker already.

“Clear!” Morgan yelled.

“Clear! All clear!” Shu answered. He went to the second door and knelt, watching the hall. “Suppressors off,” he said, and waited for Morgan to take his place so he could thread the sound suppressor off of his M7. It would offer greater maneuverability inside the building — a luxury the mercenaries here did not have, as they still had full-size rifles and carbines.

Morgan pushed down the hall a little too fast for Shu’s liking.

Shu caught up with Morgan, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Slow is smooth,” he reminded.

“Smooth is fast,” Morgan said, remembering. She took a deep breath and continued at a steadier pace. Her MA5K swayed less.

Shu took to the opposite wall, moving at the same pace and slightly behind Morgan.

Two S3 troopers peeked from the corners of the end of the hall, which hooked right, and took potshots. Shu immediately fired, nailing one in the head. Morgan dropped, either tripping or taking a direct hit.

Shu double-tapped the trigger, nearly bouncing 5mm rounds off the pylon reinforcing the bunker’s corner and chunking the concrete behind it. He reached the end of the hall, “slicing” the corner like a pie, to find the second trooper backpedaling with his rifle in the low-ready position. In a heartbeat, it cost Shu four rounds to kill him: two in the chest, and two in the head.

At the end of the hall, the control room’s door slammed shut. He shot at the door but didn’t expect to hit anyone behind it. Then he went back for Morgan. “You good, Morgan?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, groaning and stumbling back to her feet. “I’m good, right?”

Shu quickly inspected her body for wounds. There were none. Shrapnel from a 7.62 round had lodged itself in her ceramic chestplate, punching a shallow hole in the metal casing and leaving a bit of a pockmark. “You’re good,” he said with a grin that was shared quickly. “Your armor caught it.”

“Oooh,” Morgan said. “Nice.”

“Yeah,” Shu said with a chuckle. “Let’s go.”

When they reached the door, he unhooked a flashbang and waited at the end of the “fatal funnel,” where fields of fire overlapped once the door opened.

“Left,” Shu whispered.

“Right,” Morgan said. It was decided. He pulled the pin, shot the lock, and cracked the door open, chucking the grenade in and ducking back as gunfire erupted and punched holes in the door. Both turned away.

A deafening sound rattled the concrete acoustics of the bunker. A flash brighter than a thousand suns overtook the entire room, but Shu and Morgan were safe from it. He spun around, swung the door open with his foot, and entered with tunnel vision down the holographic sight mounted on his M7. He cleared the left side, killing two. Morgan killed a third disoriented soldier keeled over on the right. The door to the next room was closed.

“Clear!” Shu yelled.

“Clear!” Morgan answered. “All clear!”

“Whitehall, Reyes,” Shu said. “Get down here.”

_ “Roger,” _ Whitehall said. They came within the minute.

Beyond a suite of targeting computers and something that looked like ballistic range tables, and a soundproofed, heat shielded viewport, was an M58 Archer warhead modified to fit a ballistic missile that could, it seemed, escape the gravity well of Sedra.

“Clear the catwalk and plant the explosive,” Shu said. Whitehall and Reyes did so, breaching the next door and entering in a similar fashion to how he and Morgan did.

“How do we stop the launch sequence?” Morgan asked.

Shu looked over what appeared to be the main control panel. He couldn’t decipher a damn thing. There were lines of code all over the monitors, and no clear indicator of what actually launched the missile. There were two keys in the large desk covered with switchboards, and he’d seen enough movies to make assumptions, but otherwise he wasn’t sure if he could actually stop an automated process.

He flipped his M7 to fully automatic, stepped back, and leveled it at the quantum computer’s chassis. “Plan B,” he said, and clamped the trigger.

——

Cobalt Team was improvising. This was a very, very bad thing.

Locke and Hayden cleared the antechamber to one of the Longsword hangars. Empty. As they swept around, finding the next door, they waited on it before entering the offices up to the main hangar.

“We don’t have much time,” Hayden whispered, checking his MA56.

“Do we ever?” Locke asked. Hayden smirked and pulled his balaclava up to cover his face. He cupped his hand around his push-to-talk and squeezed. “This is Locke. Hayden and I are at the entrance to the second hangar. Ready to enter.”

_ “Roger,” _ Nex said.  _ “Kygro and I are at Hangar Three. No one’s spotted us yet.” _

_ “Rei here. I’ve got Ember ready to go at Hangar One.” _

The other squad members — Mike, Korudo, Larock, and Katrina — winked their acknowledgment lights on. They were in position to pull security at each structure’s exterior.

_ “Proceed,” _ Nex ordered.

Locke silently reached for the double doors, gripped his finger around one, and waited. Hayden moved to the other side of the doorframe and nodded. Locke immediately pulled the door open. The grenadier peeked through the slit, entering slowly, silently, and low.

Locke followed, watching the other direction and ensuring that the door shut silently behind him.

On the catwalk above them, two S3 guards were talking idly. They hadn’t been alerted. Parallel to them was the next set of double-doors to the main hangar. If Locke and Hayden were detected, they would have to deal with those soldiers later. If they shot them, they’d alert the whole building anyway.

Hayden turned his head slightly to Locke. Locke motioned his hand toward the door.  _ Not yet. _

They continued, eyes and arms glued to their adversaries, until they reached the door and slipped through.

The hangar was bustling with activity, yet no one’s eyes were trained towards Locke and Hayden’s intrusion. Maintenance crews were hard at work to get three GA-TL1B Longsword bombers operational enough to take off down the main runway, while bombardier crews were quickly gearing up and briefing each other on the spot. Thermobaric ready racks were prepped at almost every station.

_ “If you’ve got cloaking,” _ Nex reminded the team,  _ “use it now.” _ Locke and Hayden would have to do it the old-fashioned way.

They crept around the edges of the hangar once they noticed the second-floor catwalks were completely empty. They weren’t exactly inconspicuous, considering anyone who looked their way would spot them, but the advantage they had was that no one was paying attention to anything but their immediate jobs —  _ no one _ was looking up.

That changed when the base’s PA alerted the entire hangar.

_ “All personnel, breach detected at the silos. Security breach. Check all sectors and maintain vigilance.” _

A few deck crews happened to glance up from the commotion and locked eyes with Hayden. They froze. He reflexively raised his suppressed MA56, and in the blink of an eye, put two rounds each into their chests. Blood splattered freely out of their unarmored jumpsuits and they dropped instantly. Locke opened fire as well, shooting at the guards who came rushing out on the catwalk to inspect the commotion.

“I don’t know what I expected,” Hayden said, flipping the safety off of his grenade launcher.

“Get under that Longsword!” Locke yelled, sweeping his arm to the right. They ran after it, and he dropped his det pack at the landing gear, propping it against the wheels. “Give me a second; I’m going to calibrate the explosives.”

“Right here?” Hayden asked.

“It’s the best we got,” Locke said. “Once I’ve got it, we’re getting the fuck out.”

“Alright,” Hayden said. “I’ve got this 40-mike-mike, too.”

“Use it wisely,” Locke said, pulling out his detonator module. He synchronized the frequencies with his helmet-mounted comm suite. From there he could remotely detonate the explosives with a single command through his neural interface; no physical trigger needed.

Hayden launched a HE-DP shell to the adjacent Longsword, which a hodgepodge of armed mechanics were taking cover behind, underneath, and inside. The shell struck one of the landing gear pieces and buckled it, collapsing the portside wing onto a ready rack’s guided bomb unit and crushing the warhead, detonating the explosives. Half of the entire hangar was rocked by the shockwave, which tore apart the wing, ignited the fuel reserves, and knocked Locke and Hayden onto their rears. The secondary explosion was directed mostly upwards, ripping a hole in the hangar ceiling. Locke felt the heat slap his cheeks even from the other side of the hangar; it felt like a flash-burn. He crawled behind the landing gear to protect himself.

“I said  _ wisely _ ,” Locke barked through grit teeth. “You fucking madman.”

“Sorry,” Hayden said in a tone that was completely unapologetic.

The gunfire died down. “Now’s our chance!” Locke shouted. “Let’s go!”

The two of them broke away from their cover and sprinted out the massive hangar doors.

“Oy,” Locke said, “it’s Locke. We’re compromised. Detonating prematurely. Requesting RV, over.”

_ “Standby,” _ Nex said.  _ “Break one.” _

_ We might not have one minute. _

Locke and Hayden stopped by the side of one of Hangar Two. “We should’ve brought a Spartan,” he whispered.

“No kidding,” Hayden said, watching the corner down his gunsight.

Locke willed his comm unit to switch frequencies to the operational team channel, where he had permission to listen to squad leaders communicate between Cobalt, Nova, and Reaper, but not to broadcast.

_ “... secondary explosions heard. Do you copy?” _ Reaper 1 said.

_ “Affirmative,” _ Nex said.  _ “That’s my team. They got fucked and now we’re setting off early.” _

_ “Roger, uh,” _ Reaper 1 said,  _ “we’re actually good to go here, so I say we just start phase three right now.” _

_ “Charges are set on the ammo reserves?” _ Nex asked.

_ “Affirmative,” _ Reaper 1 said.  _ “Only problem is there’s a second reserve base we didn’t take into account of.” _

_ “Good enough,”  _ Nex said.  _ “All teams, phase three. I repeat, phase three. Detonate munitions. Thirty seconds.” _

Reaper 1 sounded off. Cobalt was still dark.

Locke switched back to the squad channel.

_ “Detonate all explosives in twenty-five seconds,” _ Nex said.  _ “Rendezvous at the base of the ATC. It’s about two hundred meters south, near the motorpool.” _

Locke, and Ember responded with green acknowledgment lights. Locke counted down in his head. “Let’s move,” he said, slapping Hayden’s shoulder. They moved ahead of the hangar, making sure all of their fields of fire were clear, and broke to the open tarmac. Fifty meters out, they took cover behind a pair of grounded helicopters. Locke willed his comm channels to open the frequency he synced the detonator to. His HUD interface displayed a final message, requesting a voice-over-battlenet command:

/> _ CONFIRM SEQ: VOBN _

Locke squeezed his push-to-talk. “Detonate,” he whispered into his microphone.

/> _ VOBN CMD ACCEPTED _

The remainder of the hangar burst into several massive explosions. Shockwaves whipped by, rocking the helicopter and rattling Locke’s bones. His headphones picked up the high volume of sound and immediately cut off the environmental audio amplifiers; even with his well-sealed ear defenders blocking the noise, the explosion was so incredibly loud it made his ears chime like cymbals. Hayden fell over. Two more explosions tore apart the other hangars, blowing chunks out of the rooftops and lighting up the whole base with an inferno that blinded Locke’s night vision momentarily. From the ammo dump deeper embedded in the mountain, a tectonic shudder jostled the grounds of the entire base like an earthquake.

“Oorah,” Locke said.

“Oorah,” Hayden said.

When the explosions stopped, they made for the air traffic control tower. A few enemy aircraft that were previously on final approach waved off at the last minute, roaring over the airfield.

_ “Get across the airfield! Go!” _ Nex ordered. A waypoint appeared on Locke’s HUD, near the six-story command center, across the tarmac and runways.

Locke and Hayden kicked off, sprinting after it as secondary explosions detonated all over the airfield’s ammo dump. A few other silhouettes broke the darkness fifty kilometers to their left and right. Their HUDs tagged them as friendly.

They made it, three hundred meters away. Locke slammed into the western-facing wall at full speed, hunkering down behind a squad of Marines. “Night,” he rasped.

“Stalker,” Reaper One said, turning his head slightly. “Welcome back,” he whispered.

“Where’s Cobalt Team?”

Reaper 1 stalled. “I’m not sure. They’re still engaged.”

Nex and the others caught up, settling down behind Locke and Hayden.

“Exfil?” Nex asked.

“We’ll have to go back the way we came,” Reaper 1 said. “Won’t be easy, but—”

A modified Kodiak APC rounded the base’s motor pool. Its turret turned toward them and opened fire as a line of Marines crossed towards the command center. The coaxial laser machine gun cut down most of them through the smoke.

“Get low!” Reaper 1 shouted. “Open fire! Shoot out the turret’s optics!”

Two dozen Marines and Nova team immediately dropped to their stomachs. Locke quickly sighted in and fired at the bottom right corner of the turret’s gun housing, hoping for the best.

The APC’s main turret swiveled over towards them as eight of Cobalt Team’s men made it through the smoke. Shu slid in the asphalt behind Locke, scrambling back to his feet and scuffling around the corner to safety. A squad of mercenaries exited the APC’s troop carrier bay and fanned out. Hayden launched a 40mm shell at them, killing four instantly. Locke turned and fired at the others.

Eventually, the focused fire seemed to hit its mark; a stray round possibly hit the optics suite and blinded the crew. The turret pivoted up, possibly as a knee-jerk reaction from the gunner pulling the stick back, and fired blindly into the towering command center. It warped the structure and rained glass down onto the Marines.

“Amateur hour,” Locke murmured as the crew climbed out. They were cut down by the resulting gunfire.

The vehicle seemed inactive.

“Morgan,” Shu, the leader of Cobalt 1, said, “check that victor!”

Without another word, one of Cobalt’s men ran after the APC and poked her rifle into the troop bay, fired twice, and stepped back. “Clear!” she yelled.

“What’s going on?” Locke asked, pulling Shu’s shoulder. “Did you deal with that ballistic missile?”

“Affirmative,” Shu said.

Reaper’s leader came up to Shu and traded a fist bump. “You fuckin’ made it,” he said.

The ground rumbled. The Marines knelt.

“What’s going on?” someone yelled.

Shu dropped low and checked the rear. “Looks like it’s happening,” he whispered.

Locke got up to him and nudged him on the shoulder. “What’s happening?”

“Hey, look!” Reaper 1 shouted, pointing to the main entrance.

A ballistic missile rose from behind the main garage and barracks. Smoke and flame billowed out of its engines and bloomed on the ground.

“Archer launch sequence!” One of Cobalt’s men yelled. Another ran past Locke, grabbing Shu’s shoulder. “Detonate!” he yelled.

“Working on it,” Shu said.

“Before it gets out of range, please!”

Shu whispered the final command sequence into his channel. Two seconds later, the ballistic missile erupted in flames, split in two, and plummeted towards the ground. It was swallowed by a massive pair of explosions — the fuel reserves igniting and the Archer warhead detonating on impact. The shockwave struck everyone a second later with a deafening roar. Not a single person could stay standing — not even the Spartans.

_ “Status!” _ Nex yelled.

A wave of acknowledgment lights winked green. Locke gave her a green light as well as he checked himself for injuries and recovered.

The command channel lit up.  _ “Confirming visual on secondaries inside the base. Enemy fire has let up. Move forward!” _ It was Major Hamilton.

CIWS and missile batteries along the perimeter fell silent. Drones swooped as low as a hundred meters off the ground and dropped bombs on enemy batteries.

“He’s taking the initiative,” Locke murmured. “That missile must have knocked something big out.”

“Yeah,” Hayden said. “The whole front of the base.”

_ “Cobalt, Reaper, Nova, this is Blackbird Actual,” _ Hamilton ordered.  _ “Report.” _

_ “First stage of the operation is complete. Cobalt Team suffered some casualties. We’re at the HQ just in front of the airfield. Awaiting support,” _ Nex replied.

Another voice chimed in.  _ “Infil team, this is Snake Pit. We’ve been tasked to make contact with you and raid the HQ. Have verifiable intel that the HVT is there.” _

_ “Roger,” _ Nex said. She switched over to the channel Cobalt and Reaper were listening on, and Locke did the same to listen in.  _ “Cobalt, Reaper, secure a perimeter around the HQ. HVT is inside. Snake Pit is on the way.” _

_ “Roger,” _ Reaper 1 said.

_ “Roger,” _ Cobalt 1 said.

The Marines, save for the wounded, fanned out and obtained three hundred and sixty degrees of security around the headquarters. It only took minutes for the Marines from Snake Pit, SP-1, to arrive. It was a platoon of twenty-six Recon Marines. A few of them exchanged slaps on each others’ shoulders, congratulating each other for making it through.

The main entrance’s door opened up and the Marines swung their rifles over. Locke and Hayden watched as a squad of S3 security agents ran out, weapons raised, guarding a woman in officer fatigues. His HUD tagged her as the HVT — Colonel Winters.

The Marines shouted them down, attempting to disarm them. They stood still, remaining silent, and waved their rifles back toward the Marines.

“Put your weapons down!” Locke yelled. “Surrender!”

“I don’t think so,” Winters said, and squeezed a detonator — except, it wasn’t a detonator. Locke realized as it happened that it was an Anian-made slipspace translocator. The Anian special forces used it to teleport their forces between modules with a range of one astronomical unit. She and her guards vanished in a flash of white that momentarily blinded everyone.

“She’s gone,” Locke whispered.

“Damn it,” Hayden hissed.

The command channel lit up.

_ “This is Phantom. Report.” _

_ “For the most part, we’ve taken the airfield,” _ Nex said.  _ “Winters got away. She used a slipspace translocator. Unknown vector.” _

_ “Affirmative. We picked up the radiation spike from orbit. Be advised, we suspect that S3 has broken our radio encryptions. GBU just took out Blackbird Actual just seconds after he transmitted. Their air-to-ground capabilities have been reduced but their attacks are getting more precise.” _

_ “Roger,” _ Nex said.  _ “We’ll keep that in account.” _

Almost immediately after, another call broke through the command channel. It was Adler’s voice.

_ “Anyone on this net, please respond. This is Wolverine. Our forces are getting cut down out here, we’re at the firebase. Engaged with enemy Spartan element. I repeat, enemy Spartans. It’s Stinger’s crew. Requesting reinforcements ASAP.” _

Locke knocked his elbow into Nex, drawing her attention. He eyed her faceplate directly. She nodded with a noticeable hesitation.

_ “Nova,” _ she called on the squad channel, whipping her index finger around.  _ “Wrap it up. We’re moving out!” _


End file.
